#I also grew up in the desert with things called goat heads though

[dancingdryads]

I always thought I was more of a Lucy, I thought we were so similar, but you know, I think I’m really more like Susan. Like I think my faith and determination to hope is a bit more like Lucy, but personality wise, I’m definitely more like Susan.

I’m very much another parent to my younger brother, I’m concerned with propriety to a certain extent and whether things make sense logically. I’m even concerned with how I look and present myself, though that is in part because it’s fun and in part because how you look does affect how people react to you. I never had the fashion equivalent of a nylons and lipstick phase, but I did have the ‘I’m very mature for my age’ phase which basically amounts to the same thing even if the method I chose was different.

I’m more likely to be the one holding down the fort, preparing home for people coming back rather than the one charging forward. And you know? That’s a good thing. Lucy’s need Susan’s to balance them, and vice versa.

That’s why the Pevensies worked so well, they could balance each other, soften the extremes. And we can’t all be the kind of person that climbs trees barefoot (trees have splinters) or wander to new places completely unconcerned (like I love you Lucy but stranger danger is a thing and you did almost get kidnapped so)

(… but then again, the friendly optimism saved Lucy from that so, again, balance)

[of-wrens-and-whirlwinds-blog]

To meet your dreams

Commission for the marvelous @starcrossedcherik ! Cherik with an Old Guard taste! I, uh, super deviated from the original idea, I hope you like this anyway!

If you would like to commission me, please head over to my About page!

CW: Islamophobia, antisemitism, (both of which are questioned), and heatstroke

~

It was rather hard to agree with the Church about the blasphemy of Muslims when their homeland was so… familiar.

Charles had abandoned the army because they weren’t traveling fast enough for him; the man in his dreams was near, and Charles needed to find him quickly. But… the closer he got to the city of Jerusalem, the more he saw, the more he learned—the more he didn’t understand.

The pope had called his dreams prophecies, and told Charles that they meant he had to kill the man. Charles had taken his word for it, because he had never had reason not to. Father had raised him to trust the Church absolutely, and so he did.

And yet, this arid landscape was so much more than just tiny villages of primitive huts and ugly, evil-looking people. Not at all what the priests and travelers had described. There were towns, cities, ingenious farming techniques, and kind-looking people smiled and greeted him instead of attacking or cowering from the power of Christ that should be visible to evil.

Which meant they weren’t evil at all.

Huh.

It was the tenth day away from the army. Charles laid down under a date tree as the evening heat grew, and closed his eyes. Almost immediately, the dream came. The man was in it.

The man was tall, and broad. His mouth had a grim set to it, his brown face stern. His hair was silver-white, despite the fact that he looked barely thirty. And his eyes were beautiful, shifting between blue and green and grey with the angle of the light. In the dream, he did normal things: walking through a colorful market, greeting people, buying food; sitting in a library, translating a Greek text into the beautiful but baffling language of this place, Arabic; practicing swordsmanship with men who laughed and spoke to him warmly. This part had always confused Charles; why would God want to show him the softness, the normalcy of this man’s life?

The dream shifted. Now the man was making things with iron—but without tools. He simply held his hands out to a broken pipe, and a sheet of metal rose and melded with said pipe. No seams. No hammering, or welding, or replacing. Charles found this part of the man fascinating, and wanted to know more.

But he was Jewish, from the star around his neck. And the pope would say that it was deviltry. Charles’ gift was a blessing from God; the man’s power was obviously earned from the devil. But truly, if this strange talent was from evil, then wasn’t Charles’ as well? Or if his was a blessing, why wasn’t the man’s?

His training shut that thought down sternly. Jews and Muslims were bad. The Church said so, and the Church was always right. He must kill the man—if not because of Divine Will, than because it would get him out of Charles’ dreams.

~

On the fifteenth day away from the army, Charles was too cursed hot. He took off everything—tunic, shield, armor, padding—buckled his belt and sword back on over his shirt, and continued walking. He was so thirsty, and so hungry, and the weight of his sweat-soaked armor had been unbelievable.

He passed a man filling a water trough for goats. Charles’ body was aching, and he was ready to collapse; he rubbed his temple with his fingertips, and “copied” the man’s language into his own mind, and the sense of what those words meant. Then he approached, and when the man looked up, Charles asked, “May I have some water?”

“Of course!” the fellow said, looking startled, and finished pouring the water into the trough. “Come in, come in. You’ve been in the sun too long, sir.”

Charles nodded, and followed the man into the small house.

The shade was an immediate relief, and he swayed a little in the cooler air. The man was talking to a woman, who nodded and went to get water. The man motioned for Charles to come with him, and sat him down on a large pillow in an area carpeted with sturdy rugs and other large pillows.

“My name is Ahmad,” the man said, watching Charles with a startlingly concerned gaze. “May I know yours?”

“Yes,” Charles said. “My name is Charles. It is wonderful to meet you, Ahmad.”

Ahmad stroked his beard and nodded. “My apologies, sir, but are you not used to the sun?”

“It is… too fierce for me, here,” Charles admitted, beginning to feel woozy. “I come from the North. The sun is not nearly so bright there.”

Ahmad stopped stroking his beard, and peered at Charles again, lips pursed. “Where in the North?” he asked.

Charles hesitated, then sighed, shoulders slumping. It was really no use hiding his background. The worst they could do was drive him out to die in the desert. And the desert could not kill him. “West,” he said dully. “Italy, to be precise.”

“I do not know where Italy is, but I know what comes out of the West. What business have you here?”

Charles stared at the table, so dizzy he couldn’t think straight. His skin hurt, burning and tight. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t know anymore.”

~

He was allowed to sleep in this small home, after Ahmad’s wife, Maryam, spread something thick and cool and healing on his face. He mumbled his thanks and smiled a little, and laid down when she told him to. He was asleep long before his hosts.

At dawn, Charles got up with his hosts, thanked them sincerely, and asked how to repay them. Ahmad frowned, then shook his head and said, “Ask for water and shelter on your way to the city. Don’t waste our hospitality.”

Maryam smiled at her husband and said to Charles, “Take care of yourself. And if you would like to stop in again sometime, bring us some baklava.”

Charles smiled too, confused but glad. “Thank you,” he said again. “I will do my best.”

~

The dreams became clearer and clearer as he walked on. Sometimes he woke up confused, because he expected to be standing beside the man, not lying on the ground under a tree or boulder. Sometimes he dreamed that the man was unhappy, concerned, even, but hid it from everyone.

Charles knew without a doubt that he was getting closer.

He passed many temples—but also churches. With crosses and everything. If he was tired, he would sometimes approach a church and ask if the priest knew a place where he could rest and eat. They usually did.

Once, the place he was pointed to was run by Jewish people. Charles wanted to bolt. He did not have the mental strength to fight his own learned hatred, and he might deeply insult these people. But… he read their minds quickly, and discovered that these people had no motives beyond feeding the hungry. Baffled, off-balance, exhausted, he bought some tea and a salad and sat in a corner to eat.

It was like that all the way to Jerusalem. People being kind, and inquisitive, and so incredibly human. Charles was dizzy from it. How could he justify “cleansing” this place when it was so like his home? Yes, the population tended to have darker skin and hair over all, but surely that was no reason to hate them. And their religions, and personal beliefs, and honor. The majority of them were just as complicated as the people back home.

Charles felt smaller and more scared and more despairing the closer he got. He clung to his dreams, now; dreams that never changed, dreams about the man he had to kill. He clung so fiercely that he forgot his hesitation about the inevitable murder. Everything was falling apart except that he must meet this man, and kill him.

When he reached Jerusalem, the guards at the gate questioned him; he barely had the sanity left to tell them he was fine and he wouldn’t make trouble—he just had to meet someone. He was clinging so hard to his task that he wasn’t sure the rest of the world was real.

It was not hard to find the man. Charles knew from the dreams where the man lived. It was getting dark. Charles kept his hand on his sword hilt, though he trembled all over.

The lights were on in the windows of the man’s home. Charles stood before his door, chewing his lip. Was he strong enough? Could he keep his balance long enough to kill? What would happen when he was done? Obviously, he couldn’t kill himself—that had never worked before. But was there a way to get out of this life? Was there a way to obliterate himself completely, so that he need not think of this crime?

Why did he think this was a crime? A mere year ago, he thought this would be divine justice. No. He was just insane from heat, and confusion, and fear. It was his duty to kill the man.

He drew his sword, stepped forward, and knocked on the door.

It was a long moment before he heard the lock sliding back. Charles steadied himself, breathing harshly.

The door opened.

The man stood there.

For one single second, Charles wanted to kiss him.

But his task was clear. So he lunged.

The man dodged, and Charles fell inside, landing on his belly on the floor, smacking his chin on the hard stone and what was left of his thoughts scattering like dead leaves.

He started crying, and couldn’t stop.

“What in God’s name...” the man whispered, and his voice was so beautiful that Charles cried harder. He’d failed. He’d failed to kill him. He’d failed God’s test. But if the man tried to kill him, he wouldn’t be able to, and then Charles would have to find a way to escape into the desert and die because he couldn’t take the disappointment and punishments of the priests and pope. He couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t.

The man touched Charles’ shoulder.

Something… charged shuddered through Charles at that touch. His tears turned off with a gasp, and the man sucked in a breath through his teeth. For a long moment, they were both still, the only sound in the house their breathing.

“Oy,” the man breathed. Charles pushed himself up on to his side to stare up at the man, who stared back, but not angrily, as he had every right to. No, it was surprised, and welcoming, and tender, which looked… extremely handsome on his stern face.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said. The dizziness was fading. He hurt all over. “I’m sorry, I thought… I thought I knew what...”

The man helped him sit up, and they just stared at each other for a long moment. Charles found himself trying to memorize the man’s face. He was so intriguing. And the dreams didn’t do him justice. He was the most handsome man Charles had ever seen. And his hands were so gentle.

The man leaned forward and kissed Charles.

Again, that spark, that shock of warmth, and Charles forgot that this was a sin, that he had failed God’s mission for him, and instead leaned into the kiss with a breathy sigh, not fighting back in the least when the man pulled him closer and kissed him deeper. This was good. This was a better end than killing. This was what was meant to happen.

~

It took a long time to figure out what was happening between them.

The man—Eliram, he was interested in Charles. Charles felt extremely shy and baffled.

“Why aren’t you angry?” he asked Eliram helplessly, holding a cup of cool water in his shaking hands. “I tried to kill you. Why aren’t you angry at me?”

Eliram smiled crookedly and ran his fingers through Charles’ hair. “Because you didn’t know,” he said softly. “You said so yourself. You didn’t know what it meant, our connection.”

“But—I was sent to kill—in a war—” Charles’ eyes filled again. “Why are you being kind? My people would have beheaded me for this.”

“Shh. Not tonight.” Eliram wrapped his arm around Charles and held him close. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Charles nodded, drank his water, and fell asleep in his love’s arms.

The next morning was horrible, actually. Eliram made him take a cool bath, and then dressed Charles in Eliram’s own clothes, and then went out to an apothecary to get something for his burns. Charles drank more water, ate a pear, and laid down on the cushions in the living room to sleep some more.

He did not have the dream.

In a way, then, he had been right. Coming here made the dreams go away. But they were one more piece of familiarity, one more portion of sure knowledge, that had been stripped from him. Now he was alone in a strange place with his delirium and doubt and fear.

No. Not alone.

Eliram came back and gave him medicine, and then they sat together and talked softly. Charles admitted his horrible thoughts; Eliram admitted that he had been extremely worried, when his dreams of Charles showed that he was growing weaker and more delirious by the day. He hadn’t thought Charles would recognize him.

Charles snorted and said, “I’ll always recognize you. No matter what. I’ve been dreaming about you for two years, I’ve memorized your face.”

Eliram smiled. “Good. My face is probably better than any of your unnaturally pale brethren,” he said smugly.

Charles laughed. It was the first time he’d laughed in four years.

[ilguna]

i also have a list of shit my history teacher (this year) has said and done so I will share it with you:

warning: its really fucking long bc he would say/do shit MULTIPLE times a day

goes onto the next slide, “it’s a meme, get it?” proceeds to explain the meme (its the hey arnold meme with the first)

also goes onto another slide, with the twitter opinion meme. at the end of the paragraph it says “this class smacks, I’m lit”

“I’m going to beat up your brother. i am going to pummel him.”

On the 6th day of class he finally realized that there was a total of 6 guys and the rest were girls

student: “You should not put it in (as an assingment)”. teacher; “laugh out loud, im dead”

he was teaching us how to write a DBQ, the computer had a pop up saying that the battery was low, and then a spider shows up out of fucking nowhere, hanging from the ceiling. he CLAPS it, jokes about eating it, and then sets it on his desk (not in the trash can 2 feet away) so he can “deal with it later”

his endless military stories, specifically ORANGE DESERT

he wrote “if you would have had your thinking skull on” on my first DBQ

him saying “I hate this” after typing a word wrong multiple times while teaching us DBQ’s lmfao

“For the lols”

Threw a box of tissues across the room into the trash can

threw a box of tissues at a student

he had this obsession with throwing expo markers at his whiteboard, trying to make it land on the metal part so expect that a lot.

“Do you want me to drown him in a bathtub?” (which was about a student’s dog that had separation anxiety lmaoo)

Sang the rain drop, drop top song

The collars on his shirt turned up

“He’ll be beaten for that distraction” (after his son called him during his lesson and he willingly answered)

“Stay woke” 

“It was a hot boy summer for him”

expo marker landed on the metal thing for once thanks to a towel that was there

kyle (it must have been a story or something i dont remember)

He woah’d at some point

HAHA so there was a kid in my class that had got caught with a bong on the second week of school and he was suspended. when he came back to class, we were going over what the south grew in the U.S. very early on into colonization. and he used the bong kid as an example of a tobacco farmer

tried to eat a balled up paper

“important revolutionary war stuff”

“My bae, George Washington”

“They could’ve killed g-dubz, but they didn’t”

called george washington “g-dubz” frequiently

“Facts”

“Swagtastic”

he got excited over a military general (baron friedrich von steuben) for being a gay military general--”That was very well respected!”

“He had a ton of swagger”--referring to ben franklin

“His nickname was the swamp fox. You guys can call me that”

The snowball fight story--his brother was friends with a kid he hated next door. my teacher challenged the kid--Eric--to a snowball fight. In preparation, my teacher had froze snowballs, and so when he did have the fight, he LITERALLY knocked Eric out and left him on the front lawn unconscious (he was an elementary school kid)

one time he gave us the punishment quiz by accident, tried to make up for it by giving everyone the answer to #6. however, it turned out to be wrong so he just gave us all 100′s instead

another military story of the goat he bought from an old man with his buddies. unfortunately they had to kill the goat to eat, but the FACT that my teacher said this “a cute little goat--you know, baaa?” as if we didn’t know what a goat was 

He was the golf/hockey coach!! so not only would he talk about beating up the kids in the golf club

he would also do random golf swings all the goddamn time! with no gold club or ball, it was just air.

“You are about to get clowned, young lady”

pronounced pamphlet as pamplet fora good part of his teaching career (another story he told us)

“It’s definitely not the declaration of independence you mouth breather!”

George washington = bae on a powerpoint

“you tied me up real good”

“France also popped off”

Compares the Connecticut compromise to ppap (with the song and everything!)

Told someone to shut up after they suggested that Iowa was the least populated state (he’s from Iowa)

hick iowa, to be exact

Wrote 23 as 32, realized his mistake and said “oop im dyslexic”

“If it’s a purge, I’m killing everybody”

“Federalism, not onion!’

“Who’s the dumbass guy? Ducey!” (our state governor)

he got arrested once. his mugshot is on google images and everything

he got arrested bc some guy was destroying his house w a baseball bat at a party his friendw as throwing (but it was at my teachers house). my teacher respectfully punched him and brought him to the front lawn. called the cops when the guy wouldnt leave and ended up being arrested too. teacher thought his career was over and threatened the guy the entire way to the police station

“laugh out loud!”

“We beat the begeezus out of a bunch of british people”

pronounced wolf as woof

“Who was his daddy? Who’s his daddy?”

Called a swim cap a bonnet

“Kick!”--then proceeds to kick a tennis ball. before that he had just thrown it to get out of his way

“Jesus, you’re a big boy”

for like 2 weeks straight he used that same tennis ball to try and erase a whiteboard. and im not talking rubbing it on the board, he fucking threw it at the wall, getting it off little by little. he eventually gave up, though

“I’ll snot rocket into the trash can”

“Cause I realize most of you are morons”

was obsessed with the cowboy boogie

“Every time I cough, my tail bone hurts”

“Do i look normal?”

“I look like an old man”

“Shut up your faces”

“I see you back there, queen”

“Some of you girls need to learn from this article”--the article was old & about girls being submissive

“that would hurt some people’s feelings, but I’m not gonna show it hurt mine”

“He’s just--’meow’”--about his cat

he had a sweater that had his face on it, photoshopped over a boxer that a student gave him. he wore it during winter

flicked a tennis ball across the room with a hockey stick. hit the coffee thermo on his desk, stared for a couple of seconds, and THEN realized that it was open

First off, all you kids making memes about dodging the draft--we don’t want your dumbasses anyway” --continued to rant for a few minutes after that

he HATED the national anthem with a burning passion

“I’m old as shit”

also, his cat’s name IS meow cat

more expo marker throwing

“Hey there handsome”-- to the teacher next door

“Henry clay is going to haunt you until april” (unfortunately we didnt make it that far into the school year bc of covid. disappointed that i didnt get to be haunted)

Singing electric avenue

“but here’s the tea”

“Flagstaff is like--” *reaches as high as he can to put expo marker on the wall

“I’m adopting all of you, and we’re moving to saudi arabia”

teacher: “I’m gonna break bowers kneecaps in front of you. you still want to be on strike?” not bowers but a different kid: “no...?”

Cleaned the shades in the middle of him explaining something

“You know your pinky toe? this little roast beef?”

THE TURTLE SOUP STORY. when my teacher was still a kid, he found a turtle in the wild, and brought it to his grandparents house (they owned a farm). he took care of the turtle for a while, even after his grandfather found out. until one day he came home and saw blood everywhere, went to find the turtle to see it was gone. then found his grandfather chopping up the fucking turtle so they could have it for soup for dinner. his grandfather literally made him fatten up the turtle so they could eat it

“Did mr.*****--?” (referring to himself in 3rd person, also blocked out to protect privacy)

“i’m going to staple your nostrils closed. staple, staple. ‘I can’t breathe mr.*****!’ should’ve done your DBQ!!”

his pedo stache 

stood with a paper and smiled, thinking that a student was taking a picture of him when it was really the paper

doesn’t know who gaston is???

him: “I’m going to staple your noses together. One staple” Student: “*****’s piercing parlor!”

*singing* “beauty and the beast”

“I’m going to tackle you”

more random golf swinging

“What’s up (my name)?” me: hi *he then hits the bun on the top of my head on his way in the door*

And he did it again the next day

he literally made kids compete with pastries

which reminds me, he brought donuts in 2 days in a row like a week after that and make us (his first hour) take bites bc he realized he didn’t want to eat it. one of the girls was glad to take it from him, everyone else told him no

“Good morning (my name) how are you?” me: “I’m sick again... do you need help? (with the door)” him; “Actually, yes” (normally he can open the door even when his hands are full but there was a stack of pop tart boxes that were as tall as him so) i opened the door, he goes in and says, “thank you (my name), for not being rude”

the following quotes are for the Hot Seat

Student: “what do you do--?” him: “you’re in the hot seat!”

“Some people cry”

“La *****, luxurious”

“You sit here, and you stare (into the projector light)”

basically everyone in the class had to answer a question as a review. there was a stool in front of the smartboard, perfectly placed so that the projector light would LITERALLy be in your eyes. i actually got the question right on some miracle.

“2 points of weed?”

“Can I get some of that hot leaf?”

“They will make more drugs! You can’t do that much drug!”

“You guys bullied me and stole it”

“Whole rest of the nation sucked an egg”

“Whelp, let’s just kill myself”

“Do you guys know david chapel?” *sigh when everyone says no*

*some girls singing the national anthem* Him: “no! none of this, none of this!”

“Calibri’s for idiots” (the font)

“The only thing that was in--shit”

“and uncle sam--gettin lit”

“Their daddy--UH--”

“They’re going to blame the jews--my people” (he got a dna test done, he’s not actually jewish)

“Whatever you say, boomer”

“Use my words to plagiarize in college”

“I’m jewish, that’s offensive”

“Tell him he gave me instant cancer”

Me: “can i go to the bathroom?” him: “I’ll allow it”

him: “He’s antisemetic and it hurts my feelings” student: “what does that mean again?” him: “Hates jews :(”

“You guys can call me kingfish if you’d like”

~ after we said no to the nicknames, we tried to make one for him ~

student: “cornhusker!” him: “no, that’s offensive... and it’s also nebraska”

student: “corn picker!” him: “no--that sounds like a racist term or something”

“Unless corona really does take over--” (thank u, mr. for ruining the school year”

Student: “how old was she (his mom) when she had you?” him: “thirteen”

“My mom just turned 40 the other day...” (a joke)

him: “My brother got t-boned by a semi truck last night” Student: “Why are you laughing?” him: “Because he lived.”

“Yeah bc I would hide out in a public school with 300 new kids a year” (about him not living in iowa so he’s hiding out in az to get away from his “criminal record” (refer to the 1 time hes been arrested))

“Baby death?”

“Their family has more money than jesus”

*Standing outside the door yelling “CORONA” to students walking in”

“Hey I’m *****, f-word, blah, blah”

“We should fight our cats.”

“OH that’s a big chonk cat.”

“Mortal Kombat is pretty cool. I haven’t played in 25 years”

he told us in class once that we shouldnt open the front door if cops show up at a party. just to shut the blinds and be a little quieter bc the cops cant legally open the door

also one time he had a gun pointed to his face but he never finished that story bc he never liked it

during quarantine he set a DBQ as 1000 points (and i still didnt do it)

and “Here’s the tea, kiddos!”

honorable mentions: all the time he’s sent out emails bc theyre fucking hilarious

[jaysomehero]

The Smell of Sunflowers. A Short Story.

We all think from time to time, about being loved unconditionally, a mother's touch, a lover's embrace, acceptance of one's self. We as humans crave it. From the moment you are violently screaming your existence into the world to when you are peacefully closing your eyes for the very last time.

You are put onto a path, one that takes you through this rugged, beautiful, odd journey, By accident, by purpose, by chance. You are introduced to individuals that teach you a thing or two about yourself. This story, is like that. Lessons learned, and purposes found.

A short, brief love story. If you are not doing much, perhaps offer a bit of your time.

I digressed, I was never really good at introducing a topic or story. You can say this is my first. If I remember correctly it starts around the same time as it is today. Cold, fall is passing and winter engaged. Although it was cold I remember being so warm, kind of glowing. Rebranded with new purpose. Cold air wrapped itself loosely and swiftly, felt like lace around my face, I was walking to work, I worked fast food at the time. I was a cook and typically moving in a hurry to work, with my music turned up loud enough to where I felt I was there. I really like to walk with my headphones in. The feeling and vibes, I could paint hearing the assembled sound of instruments. I could see the vibe attached with my music, I felt like I could describe it so well. My first love, music.

I loved waiting till the last minute, then bolt out the door energy drink in hand and moving like a bullet through the wind. Gotta love that youth, am I right? I just started Graveyard, and I got told it wouldn't be my usual coworker. I was used to working with.. Well for personal reasons I can't give you a name, so let's call her Molerat, as derogatory as that can sound, I find it appropriate. Usually an innocent girl, she just had a way of flipping a script and twisting your words into a balloon animal. One that you were unaware that you apparently made.

I don't have much at the moment I care to tell you about Molerat. Other than that I was not going to be working with her that night, I came in that night, per my usual timing a few minutes late, head to the back dropped my bag off, my bag I carried had my wallet, keys, an extra flannel red in color, my portable speaker, phone charger and typically an extra energy drink in addition to the one I had already. I took my energy drink and speaker to my work station which would be the grill area, back then this ritual, I believed made the shift more enjoyable, even though it was not enjoyable.

The smell of grease and burnt meat would be swimming toward my nostrils. The last of a dinner rush would be exiting and as the previous shift members were heading out and I settled in

Enter.. my coworker for the evening, I remember her wearing this thin black jacket with a flannel underneath, carrying a skateboard technically a long board, and a rasta colored satchel. She had this piercing above her lip, not in the middle but on the side. It looked cute honestly. She had these big doe like eyes, and lips that pursed like to together like those old style Hollywood actresses. After everyone from the last shift left, and we both were settled in, I attempted to introduce myself to her, in this story ladies and gentlemen, no names will be used. So call me Crow, cheesy I know but there's a purpose the name plays on and we'll get to that later. I remember awkwardly sticking my hand out like I was closing a business deal or something. She glanced at it and told me her hands were dirty. I think she said like a few minutes later. I felt a little rejected but not completely devastated. I mean after all we were both just there to scrape up some money and go home. I still wanted to push my boundaries though, so I get my speaker and turn it on. One especially great thing about working graves was no managers or shift leaders to tell you you couldn't play music out loud and best believe I took full advantage of it.

So I offer her the option to play music, most people when asked to play music don't often play THEIR music. To me it was a intimate thing to share music, intimate in a way without touching or talking like you got to hear the vibes these people vibe with.

We exchanged music, swapping song from song, the kitchen was filled with tunes of all kinds vibes in the air, from gritty, fast paced punk, through the lyrical morose of indie, to the feeling of joy and excitement in old and new songs. "Musical Soulmate" was what she called me before the night was over. Hummingbird is what I'm gonna call her. She was precious and pretty like a small Hummingbird. Like a floating little daisy that smiled and made me feel warm.

All these vibes and phases that my music helped me through. Being projected and straight into the ears of Hummingbird, This moment as I look back I would wanna call this phase the Color Yellow. They said Vincent Van Gogh ate the color yellow to cure his depression, unfortunately and ultimately succumbing to depression. I suppose the god of Death wasn't keen on just waiting around for such an artist to arrive. Bet he's painting some really beautiful things right about now, I really appreciated his pieces that included sunflowers. Those are my favorite, You gotta really give it to Death for giving life meaning.

Happiness is what the color yellow resembled and happiness in life was what I mark this brief period of my life. This happiness would be a story of love.

Eventually November flew by and December idled, blink and you'll miss it. Hummingbird and I grew more accustomed to each other. Although no feelings of love were declared you could see it, if you were there. That we were screaming it everyday at each other with every word, action and song played. You see I was supposed to be leaving to Oregon sometime within the next year, and December was well on its way to concluding a long and significant year in my change. New Year's eve, I still remember, Hummingbird and I shared our first kiss. Bringing in the new year together I was supposed to be getting to a party that night with a few friends. That kiss made me realize that there was nowhere else I'd rather be besides next to my Hummingbird. Nowhere else I'd wanna go, unless she was right there with me. So I canceled that move.

These next monthes would be confusing, exciting, and terrifying. As the phrase suggests Falling in love was exactly that. Falling, and falling and falling not stopping until you do, we were such careless lazy lovers. Living those days inside each other, it wouldn't be until the eve month of summer that a very specific surprise would arrive. The Crow and Hummingbird would be intertwined for life by the bond of birth. We were pregnant. We spent the summer trying to wrap our heads around it all. Having no car and living in the desert was a big drag, and a big challenge. It felt like I couldn't keep a job either. We were tasked with getting to know the best and worst parts of each other through the pregnancy. There were times of doubt, and times of reassurance. Keeping in mind this is a love story.

We'd eventually get a car and life was easier and through Fall and through the Winter we spent out on the road and on our own, flying wherever we wanted to be, enjoying every holiday as our last ones alone before the fruit of our trees would join us. I significantly remember Christmas 2018, how much I felt grown up, happy and carefree with my beloved. I wasn't just a Crow anymore, I was a Lovebird. Crows can be lovebirds too! The only purpose for using the name Crow. Lol That night is and will always be unforgettable. This is a love story.

January arrived and the month we both waited for. Again another January brought upon a new change, but this time for both of us. Our young, strong daughter was brought into this world on the 15th of January bearing the sign of the Sea Goat like her father before her. Blue eyed and resembling the beauty of her mother. Another light in my life was lit. Both of my girls were here. My beloved and my precious little girl. This is a love story.

This year would be a year of also many changes. For the better I do not know. For the worst I would like to think not. Lots of growing I witnessed in my daughter and in my beloved Hummingbird. I've never seen more growth from one person than her. She willingly let herself blossom and bloom into a woman. Becoming stronger, wiser, and even more gorgeous. Aging like fine wine. No jewel, no treasure, no goddess rivaled it. This is still a love story.

Somewhere along this year maybe the ending of the summer, there was doubt. Lots of doubt. I see it now, I lost strength and I didn't lose it naturally, I let myself lose it. Doubt was only natural. Love as you know is what we as humans crave. To not feel alone in a world that individualizes each and everyone. To eventually feel alone while being in love is a nasty thing. Nobody deserves such a thing. Maybe somewhere along the lines or between them there was a long lost feeling I forgot to tend to. A strong feeling. Ancient in age and has been felt since the dawn of man. If left unattended could consume the best of a man. This... Is... Still... A... Love... Story...

Lots of yelling, lots of hurting, lots of choices made. In the short time from September to November. Ladies and gentlemen this is a still a story.

Where we are left now is at the end. There are no more friends, there isn't a lover, there will not be a happy ending. Because To be frank I don't know what has ended or what has begun. I deserve no sympathy, no sad songs, and especially no love.

I the Crow, did this to myself, and I the Crow am the only one that has to be the one to fix myself. There is no smell of sunflowers and the one who smells of sunflowers is the same as the color yellow. They are happiness, they are good. Listen when I tell you that emotions run logic into the ground if left unchecked. Good men lose the battle everytime, we are warriors and not everything has to be a fight with hands. I used to think I knew how It all worked and how I could be better than I was.

Truth is I left those demons unchecked. I destroyed what I was given. I'm lost and I just want to see my girls. Hold them both in my arms. I don't want to give up. I don't want to hate. I don't fucking want to feel like this anymore. This is a love story. This is our story, this is my story, the story of a Crow that didn't learn anything and repeated his cycle. What's left is to move forward. There's only one way direction travels and that way is the only way to go. I apologize and will continue to do so till my final breathe.

I've learned its humility that humbles you. A tragedy that wisens you, and finally clarity is reached when you finally have faced those demons.

To my Hummingbird, I love you and will always love you. I'm on a path right now for a better and wiser me. Stronger and good of spirit. I do this for myself. But... I do, do this to maybe one day reunite. To meet each other again for the first time. It won't be soon, but I do truly hope to live in your arms and you in mine once this journey is completed. We could maybe be one, once more.

I'm alive and well. I don't wish to disrupt you and your peace but I do wish to hear from you and our daughter. Your well being and adventures. Thanksgiving will be here soon. I'm thankful we got to meet. Thank you.

Forever yours, the Sunflower

The Crow, The Alien, the Strutman, the Lovely Love, Kylo Ren, Jaysomehero

J. Thomas

[jhessail]

Oh look, an actual attempt to start a novel.

Chapter I

Shadow

Several men looked up as the door to the saloon slammed open, hitting the walls with a threatening sound. Tension built upon the shoulders of the well lived gunmen, while the bar wenches scoffed at what was surely showmanship of power. However to the surprise of many what stood in front of the open spot was a blonde woman, who stared into the saloon with her hands partly up.

“S-sorry!” The blonde spoke up, walking in before the swinging doors could close up on her. Most men relaxed, some noted however that the woman had a blinding silver chain wrapped around her waist. The blonde awkwardly bowed, apologizing to those who still stared at her for disturbing the peace.

She was well-fed with her well-rounded features and dressed as a cowboy despite her gender, her shades of cloth were an odd color as well. Black as the night without stars. She also wore a long cloak that was the same color with it, the ensemble coming across like an outlaw. She eventually made it to the bar, swinging her body to sit down at a stool.

Despite the eyes on her she gave the barkeeper a sharp grin and opened her mouth, “I’ve got an odd request for you sir.” The owner of the saloon, Ivan, rose his eyebrow sharply, he was used to getting mouth by women as above his saloon was an eager brothel, but a woman dressed as a cowboy was such an absurd sight even he was a little taken aback.

“Yes?” His accent thick and heavy, most had a hard time understanding him. Not much of a surprise as he was from a land far colder than the desert at night.

“Do you sell goat’s milk?” If the human body was capable of having a prat fall without injuring itself, there would be many men and women on the ground in exaggeration to the absurdity of the request.

“This is not mountain land.” Ivan voiced as attention of the bar shifted to the two, focusing on the conversation. He cleared his throat, a heavy and shuddering sound, “What do you need with milk?” He asked, his back leg ready to step away if he needed to at any time. The only time he was fine with being the focus of the room was when someone rowdy ordered drinks for everyone.

“Goat’s milk sir,” she emphasized, “and that kind of thing is my business, isn’t it?” She gave him a friendly wink and a tension filled the bar. It was impossible for the human tongue to directly lie, so when a stranger came with an odd request, dressed oddly, and no intention to speak of their reasons, it put the people on their tightest guard.

The women seemed to sense the tension in the air because she turned to the many guests of the saloon, seeing a few reaching for the rope they held tied to their side. For a split moment, quicker than a man’s spit at a jug, her eyes seemed to flash a different color. One man immediately reacted,

“Her eyes!” Then he threw rope around her. She shrieked in surprise as others rounded up around her, covering her to completely bind her.

“Hold her down!” One of the men shouted. In response, they slammed her body to the hard floor, which she grunted loudly in pain.

“What are you doing? Stop this!” She was entirely binded and she coughed and sputtered when water poured all over her head, almost drowning her. They all glared down at her, watching for any other reaction then her pitiful muttering.

“She might not be a demon.”

“I could have told you that!” She yelled immediately, glaring at her captors.

“Whaddya need goat’s milk for then?” She flinched as she got punched by another man above her. She glared up at her punisher with disdain then faced her interrogator.

“What’s it matter to you!?” She got punched in the face again, “DAMN!” She yelled, blood dripping from the edge of her mouth. “That hurt!”

“Speak stranger!” The woman purposely hid her lips, her cheeks puffing out obnoxiously. “Micheal get some holy water.” The interrogator demanded. Michael moved out of the woman’s sight, presumably to his task.

“I just like goat’s milk okay!?” The woman shrieked, one of her legs twitching in an attempt to flail in irritation. “Why are you acting like it’s such a big deal?”

“You’re the one who made it a big deal.” Michael came back and handed her interrogator a bottle of glowing liquid. The man put his finger in the bottle, flinching as the dirt around his worn callused finger cleared away in a manner resembling electricity and he smeared the glow over the young woman’s lips.

The group of men glared, waiting for any kind of reaction. They were mostly used to smoke rising from those marked by a demon, but holy water could show any kind of disguise in any way. The wildest reaction any one of them had saw was someone bursting into a blue fire that melted into the depths of the ground. The only thing they got from this was the woman continuing to glare at them.  The tension didn’t leave until the saloon doors creaked open, everyone’s attention flared to the new person.

“What in all manner of Holy is going on here?” An older gentlemen dressed finely was the speaker. His clothes resembled a long priest robe, with the exception of being white and the cassock that would normally be wrapped around the neck was instead a star pinned like a choker.

“Sheriff!”

“We thought we may have gotten us a demon.”

“I’m not!” The sheriff moved to the small mob surrounding the bound woman, a few men departing to let him enter the circle.

“What is your name?” The man asked, bending down the girl with still glowing lips, the holy water would take a while to clear. Her eyes darted away from his face, and he grasped her cheeks harshly, forcing her neck to bend and stretch to directly face him. She hissed in pain as the back of her skull dug into the hard floors as he kept pushing and stretching her neck. “Your name?”

“Call me Eli.” She hissed out, her lips looking terribly enticing with that glow around them. He crushed her cheeks in response, an uncomfortable and painful noise emitted immediately.

“That’s a man’s name girl.” Rage laced every syllable of his sentence. His fingers came closer, her skin the only barrier between them. Her leg kicked out again, pathetic noises crawled out from her lips and nose as he kept squashing her face. His fingers loosened as soon as he saw a sliver of a teardrop from the edges of her eyes. “Is it short for something?” Eli took a deep breath, her tongue darting to the sides of her cheeks as to assuage the pain a little. “Answer me.” His hand hovered close to her face and she gave him an icy glare.

“Eli is one of my names.”

“A woman has no need for more than one name!” One of the mob man yelled, angry at the stranger. It was a man’s given right to have more than one name, a woman should only have their True Name and nothing else. Eli’s face grew blank, her eyes shrank to match and give the expression of true neutrality.

“Your True Name.” The Sheriff asked, a threatening layer laced within each world. Eli closed her eyes and then she sighed. Her whole body shook with her sigh and the air started to feel heavy. Many looked around, feeling like the desert abruptly wrapped them with humidity, and saw nothing. The doors of the saloon opened up once more,

“Sheriff Rocher! The coyotes are back!” Sheriff Rocher cursed underneath his breath and glared down at the stranger with a man’s name.

“Thaddeus,” an older man who worked the hardest when he was ranching, “put her in the demon cell, better safe than sorry.” Sheriff Rocher stood up and adjusted the star against this neck. “I’ll take care of the coyotes and we’ll figure you out later.” He turned and left the saloon, the sound of sharp metal teeth whirling in a circle echoing as soon as his figure faded.

They kicked Eli up, pushing and tugging her out of the saloon after waiting a few minutes, giving the sheriff time to deal with the coyotes. Eli kept silent as they kicked and spat cruel names at her, making their way to the sheriff’s office. A magnificent church stood out gloriously, broadcasting it as the main feature of the town.

Thaddeus and the three other men that came with stared at her harshly, expecting a reaction as she stepped on the holy ground. They were all still convinced, regardless of all the opposing proofs. There was no way that a woman with more than her True Name could be anything else but a demon. No reaction happened as Thaddeus led her deep into the church, and then shoving her roughly into a dug up jail cell.

She hit the dirt harshly, and the only light in this underground burial chamber was from a giant pentagram she lay in the center of.

“We’ll be back, you wench.”

“Hope you don’t die before then.” The four men shared a chuckle and shut the trapdoor harshly, the air within the chamber feeling like it cut off. Eli stayed on the ground, eyeing the dirt roof above her, the pentagram’s light was bright enough to give detail of the painful amount of work that went into digging this chamber. Wood beams held up parts of dirt to prevent collapsing and for the talismans that hung above it.

Eli continued to stare, her eyes reading each talisman as though she held them in her hand. Protection charms, binding charms, teleporta- wait, why was that here? The young woman took a deep breath, and then jumped to her feet, the ropes that tightly bound her arms and legs fell effortlessly.

“Not much for advancement this town.” Eli remarked lightly, her shoulders shrugging as she threw her arms up. “I’ll make sure to mark this as a ‘Never come back’ town after we finish this job.” Eli squat down to the pentagram, studying the light and the shape closely. “Yeah, I’ll admit, I haven’t seen this shape before, so I guess they could have some techniques.” Eli spoke as though she was talking to someone else.

The blonde then jumped up in the air effortlessly, and grasped the talisman for teleportation. She studied it harshly, her fingers tracing the heavy ink and unknown language. A few minutes passed before she spoke again, “Ugh, of course.” She paused, as though listening to someone speak to her about her tone, “Well this is useless.” The young woman tore the talisman easily, then she jumped as she remembered something. She smeared the holy water on her lips against her jacket roughly, flinching harshly as static electricity attacked her with every wipe.

With a final harsh rub, she put her sleeve down, a visible spark of white struck the air. “I’m not going to be able to taste anything right for the next few weeks,” Eli lamented miserably. The young woman tilted her head lightly, listening to something and then she nodded. “Right, right.” Eli walked to the ladder, staring for a moment to see red paint on the steps. Ah stronger symbols of bane, that made sense.

She effortlessly ignored them, climbing up on the ladder and up to the trapdoor. Easily she pushed it out, the light of the building temporarily blinding her. She adjusted and exited the demon’s cell, closing the door and watching it meld with the floor. Neat. Eli stood up, scratching her head underneath her dark hat. “I know, I know!” She spat out, turning around to face several men. She threw up her hands immediately, a stiff nervous smile creeping upon her face. “I’ve got all the luck in the world.” She muttered to herself.

“How did you get out of there?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m human? Like I’ve been saying?” She remarked harshly. The guards and Eli jumped a little as the loud sound of the familiar weapon of the age, the chainsaw, entered the building loudly. The sheriff must have finished his task with the coyotes.

He was much more opposing with blood all over his robes, and his weapon in hand, which he did hold with only one hand, it resembled more of a buzzsaw with its oversized circular blade but the bulging gas storage connected to it and the chain buzzing around the outside of the blade classified it as a chainsaw.

The sheriff saw the scene from even as far as he was at the entrance, and he sauntered down the long walkway. He stopped thirty feet away, the sound of his chainsaw overriding all normal noise. He rose his voice to become loud and booming, a practiced expression of the art of talking that any chainsaw wielder needed to conquer,

“Who are you stranger?” Eli kept her hands up, a blush abruptly appearing upon her face as she spoke her answer,

“I am...a matchmaker!” Sheriff Rocher rose his eyebrow, the guards stepped away as he walked in closer. A sneer crossed the man’s face.

“Of course you are.”

“Yes sir!” Eli continued to try to appear as pacifistic as possible, her eyes never leaving the older man’s. This was a mistake however, as for a short moment, her bright grey eyes flashed a different color. It was built into every chainsaw wielder to react to anything that might be a demon. It was the only blade that worked against them effectively and humanity could not afford to let said demon transform to its true form.

It was something that was trained into every single person in the town of Slowpoint from the moment they’re born, because even those who only knew the way of the rope could slow a demon down, because even if you were a nameless slave, you could point out the demon and the town could help you take it down all the more faster. They all worked as unit against demons, they all had to believe what another person saw, and take it down fast.

Or they may not survive.

Sheriff Rocher rushed and struck the woman with a lancing movement. The spinning blade striking and sticking into Eli’s skull, gore and gunk sprayed out disgustingly. The sheriff separated from Eli by kicking her body away, letting it fall into a crumpled heap.

“Go get some blessers! We’ll entrap this body!” Sheriff Rocher commanded to the guards quickly, then rose his blade, striking at Eli’s torso, intending to separate it from her waist. The blade stopped cold, jittering as if caught in gunk. The sheriff stared stunned and horrified as something black emerged from the corpse. She really was a demon!

The black thing held steadfast his blade, making it a useless chakram stuck in place. The older man watched with horror as the blackness up to the corpse’s face, the messy appearance of the young woman reversed as the darkness humorously grabbed the gore and stuck it back in. It continued to overcome the young woman’s body, until all that was left of the woman’s skin and hair was pure blackness.

The bright grey eyes that had life were pure white now, white as the moon. The doppelgänger that stood in front of him had fixed Eli’s face. Eli’s wound was gone and from Eli’s stomach held the hand that kept his chainsaw still, even as the blade kept spinning, it cut into goop that consistently reformed. “What on Holy are you?”

He had never came across this in his lifetime. He wasn’t sure anyone ever had. He could hear the guards and blessers coming up, rope flew past his form to latch over the monster’s neck. The blessers circled them, all of them praying different chants to combine in strength to cage the monster in front of them. The doppelgänger didn’t react to the rope tightening around its neck, it did respond to the sheriff's question.

“I am Assiah.” Those were the last words the man heard before his head exploded.Two hands emerged from the blackened figure’s back, squashing the man’s cheeks to flatten much like he had earlier. Assiah gave a maddening grin at the horrified gasps and screams around it, black hands emerged from several parts of the beings body. Bodies flew in the air as the hands plunged to the many people in the room. Guts, brains, and blood sprayed and Assiah laughed ethereally.

When Eli opened her eyes, a frustrated growl emerged along with her. Bodies splayed all along the walls, and Eli had little doubts that this church was no longer holy land. She truly appreciated that Assiah reassembled her but did it have to just mindlessly murder anything that attacked? Eli felt an unbidden amount of tears pour out, she bowed, caked in all of Assiah’s victims blood, and prayed.

Eli stood up and her tears kept pouring, she had been through this enough in life to know they would stain her face for a minimum of a day. Eli then looked up, liking the art painted on the top of the roof, giving her a tiny bit of peace. She then turned and exited the church, giving herself a reminder to mail the mother who wanted her daughter matched off later. She couldn’t stay here and complete her job.

It was a truly hard job to try and spread love over the world when many towns like Slowpoint took the approach of treating her as a demon. She couldn’t give up her clothes or names though, they had been blessed to keep Assiah locked in her brain...with exception to her life being exterminated.

Eli walked off into the desert, her tears continuing to stream down her face in a solemn reminder of the day.

Eli wasn’t a demon. Her shadow on the other hand...who knew?

[nataliesewell]

the arcana masterlist

Stop reblogging this post. The masterlist is no longer being updated. Dana Rune, the artist, is an incest shipper and the devs are just generally horrible. DON’T SUPPORT THE ARCANA.

i’m dreadfully curious and hopelessly lost when it comes to the arcana’s twisting, complex plot, which we still don’t know much about, so i figured it’d be best to compile what i know about the characters and the plot intertwining them so far.

of course, different options / combos in the game reveal different things. as i haven’t gotten them all, and i’m forgetful af, there’ll be information missing. this is where you lovely people come in. feel free to message me stuff i’ve missed, or ask me for proof of something i’ve mentioned that you haven’t seen before! this way this masterlist will remain canonical and truthful.

just to be clear, there aren’t meant to be any assumptions or theories here; this post contains only what we know to be fact, whether it be confirmed in-game or by the devs on tumblr.

there are major spoilers abound under the cut, for future discoveries in the game even: read at your own discretion.

UPDATES

AUG 29: added more information, including that from the devs’ tumblr, and made some fixes as pointed out by some lovely tumblr users

SEP 24: removed and added information on asra’s memory wipe

SEP 28: made a heading for book vi + future books and added new information

BOOKS I - V

BACK STORY

the apprentice and other characters reside in a seaside city-state named vesuvia

count lucio hosted the masquerade, a festival held every year on his birthday, where all the cityfolk are invited, rich or poor (people were only turned away when the palace was at capacity)

at some point, the red plague sweeps vesuvia, killing countless people

if affected by the plague, a person’s sclera (the outer part / layer of their eyeball) will noticeably turn from white to red

in the hopes of finding a cure, various physicians, scientists, alchemists, witches, and even fortune tellers were invited by the count and countess to the palace, where they offered them resources for their research

during the last masquerade, three years ago, someone killed the count when he retired to his chambers

julian devorak is believed to be the killer, and is being hunted by countess nadia, however there aren’t any leads on his whereabouts

the palace has been barred from cityfolk since julian’s escape, and no more masquerades have been hosted... Until Now

LUCIO

“provocative count whose presence still lingers over the city”

before becoming a count, he was a mercenary

was feared yet loved by his subjects / the cityfolk

had the red plague, as in his sprite lucio has red sclera

commissioned a painting in which he appears as the central figure, a goat, surrounded by other animals; it was a favourite painting of his, and so it still hangs in the dining room

killed in his chambers during the last masquerade, at midnight, by manner of burning / fire; the entire wing has been closed down and abandoned since

portia mentions there are many people who had motive to kill lucio, as he had a lot of enemies

has two dogs, melchior and mercedes, who guard the staircase leading to the abandoned wing; they might later lead the apprentice to the wing

depending on the player’s choices, the apprentice may explore the abandoned palace wing / lucio’s chambers and come into contact with an apparition of a goat with red eyes

ASRA

“wandering magician with a wealth of secrets”

grew up in the streets of vesuvia alongside muriel, as confirmed by the devs on tumblr

has a familiar, a snake named faust

the devs disclosed that faust was given to asra when she was an egg by another, unknown magician

operated from a fortune teller’s booth in the city for an unknown amount of time before he met the apprentice

well known by cityfolk, and appears to be feared by some as well (namely the fortune teller whose booth is close to the palace)

later came to live with the apprentice in their shop-slash-home

went to the palace to find a cure for the red plague; the apprentice had no knowledge of this

left on a journey during the start of the game, though where he went is unknown to the player and apprentice

when telling his fortune, the apprentice picks the high priestess card, and says to asra, “you’ve forsaken her. you’ve pushed her away, and buried her voice. she calls out to you, but you won’t listen. if you don’t listen to her...”

was in a relationship with julian for an unknown amount of time; it also isn’t known when the relationship started or ended

in his grimoire preview, julian says that asra is a “witch that fears commitment”

gave julian a key to the apprentice’s shop during their relationship; julian reveals he made various house calls, namely to asra’s bedroom (the apprentice had no knowledge of this, nor of their relationship)

left faust behind with the apprentice, stating his instincts told him to after having his fortune read

when glimpsed from the fountain at the palace, as well as in the apprentice’s dreams, asra is in a vast desert atop a “strange beast”

if the player asks where he is, asra answers, “a place inside of me. who would have thought you’d be able to reach me here?”

if asked about his relation to julian, asra admits he was his friend and later became “more. and then something else... something that i had to get away from”

if asked about his relation to nadia, asra says that she was “a dear friend, once. we could talk about anything, everything, all night long. we trusted each other. for a time... but we’re strangers now”

if asked who the apprentice is to them, asra confesses his romantic feelings for them, and then erases the apprentice’s memory of it; the devs have explained this is not a continuous thing

JULIAN

“fugitive doctor who hungers for revenge”

while he is a doctor, he’s an unlicensed one

brother of portia (who refers to him as ilya); the two of them haven’t seen each other in years

went to the palace in order to find a cure for the red plague; nadia  says that julian was lucio’s “trusted physician” before his death

at the last masquerade, julian was implicated in lucio’s murder; the apprentice mentions he was captured (or surrendered) “on the spot”, but before he could be executed, he escaped

wrote a letter to portia while at the palace, which the player / apprentice doesn’t know the entirety of; as it was found among his things at the palace, he might not have sent it to portia

what we know was in the letter: “dear sister, i have... much to share since last i wrote. winter has come to the palace... these marble floors are so cold... each morning...”

looking for asra at the start of the game, which is why he breaks into the shop and meets the apprentice

when telling his fortune, the apprentice picks the death card, but the card doesn’t speak to them; whether it be because of how nervous they are or something else, we don’t know

julian reacts to the card by laughing  and saying “death cast her gaze on this wretch and turned away. she has no interest in an abomination like me”

was given a key to the apprentice’s shop by asra during their relationship; it appears julian didn’t know anything about the apprentice prior to meeting them at the start of the game

isn’t afraid to be seen, as evidenced by his appearance at the marketplace as well as at the rowdy raven tavern

if the player asks about this, julian explains the tavern goers won’t turn him in as they don’t like the palace guards (the apprentice is surprised, as where they live, the cityfolk treat the guards with reverence)

should the player have seen him at the marketplace, they will comment on his presence there, to which julian vaguely answers he “just has one of those faces”

of julian, asra says he’s “a hack physician with a lot to learn” and continues with “who is julian to me... who is he to anyone? whoever he needs to be, to get what he wants”

NADIA

“widowed countess whose word is law”

a foreigner to vesuvia, she lived in prakra (“a vast empire in the north”) before marrying lucio; she misses it deeply, and speaks on length about the sea there

doesn’t feel she can trust most people at the palace, as mentioned by portia

not a magician, however can see visions of the future in her dreams; she dreamt of the apprentice before the start of the game, which is why she sought them out

nadia comments the apprentice was “...different” in her dream

in the same dream, she saw a vision of a future she “will not allow to pass”

when telling her fortune, the apprentice picks the magician card, and says nadia has “a plan. one that’s long in the making. years upon years” that she hopes to put into motion

the devs have revealed that nadia doesn’t love lucio, and might not even harbour any friendly / kind feelings towards him either

regardless, she calls lucio’s death a “vicious injustice upon this house”

when revealing her plan to host another masquerade, she says it will be “more fanatical than ever. fantastical, excuse me”

the cityfolk believe her to be a tyrant, and fear her, much like they did lucio; however they do not love her as they loved lucio

is known to despise magicians and fortune tellers; nadia later explains she doesn’t hate them but is wary of them (as they may be pretending to have magical abilities)

has frequent, recurring headaches, which portia says are getting worse since nadia decided to host another masquerade and find julian

announces (through portia) to the cityfolk that another masquerade will be hosted soon, in honour of lucio --- none of the courtiers were aware of this until the announcement

she hopes the masquerade will lure julian, whom she believes to be lucio’s killer; she wishes to execute him publicly for the crime

wants help from the apprentice in catching julian, through magical means

gifts the apprentice an emerald necklace, which has asra’s magic tied to it; how she came to possess it is not explained

used to be friends with asra, though they are strangers now

of nadia, asra comments, “precious friends, precious experiences... you’d be amazed what people can forget. when they don’t want to remember...”

MURIEL

“fearsome outsider who owes an onerous debt”

muriel and asra are childhood friends, as confirmed by the devs on tumblr

also confirmed is the fact that muriel used to be a gladiator

muriel owes someone - currently unknown - an enormous monetary debt

if the player moves past him in the alley, he warns the apprentice of someone who “will return, uninvited. he will offer you a gift, when you need it most... turn it away. or you will fall into his hand... just like the rest of us” --- it is unknown who he’s referring to

if the player tells him to move in the alley, his warning changes slightly; he says “he will offer you an escape” instead

smells strongly of myrrh; the small leather pouch left on the stoop of the apprentice’s shop smelled of myrrh as well, which the apprentice notes, so it was likely left there by muriel

if the player seeks muriel out before portia’s announcement, asking him where he’s going, muriel answers, “blindly to the slaughter. just like the rest of you”

he later adds: “it doesn’t matter what i say. my words won’t last. they never do”

PORTIA

“trusted handmaiden with a penchant for snooping”

sister of julian (who refers to her as pasha); the two of them haven’t seen each other in years

handmaiden to nadia, and is faithful to her, however her loyalties are skewed due to her relation to julian, which is a secret none know

she is presumably known to be the countess’ favourite servant by the cityfolk

no one apart from her had known of nadia’s plan of hosting another masquerade prior to nadia announcing it during dinner, however she didn’t know nadia plans to capture and kill julian as well

had a tearful reunion with julian at the apprentice’s shop, as well as a conversation with him the apprentice isn’t privy to

snoops on the apprentice’s second meeting with asra at the fountain; depending on the player’s choice, she learns asra and the apprentice are secretly seeing each other via magic and there may be something romantic between them, or that they have feelings for each other and that asra has removed the apprentice’s memories (and has done so before as well)

for now, portia has decided to keep the above information to herself

MISCELLANEOUS

as explained by asra, anyone can do magic, for it is the will to make what you desire reality

the apprentice is believed by asra to be powerful and gifted; nadia comments on this as well, however the apprentice thinks she has mistaken them for asra

BOOKS VI -

ASRA’S ROUTE

the apprentice can hear faust and recalls that “limited communication is possible” between a magician and their familiar; however faust isn’t their familiar, making their sudden communication implausible

the apprentice notices their name having been carved into the tree by the fountain, made by asra; they express confusion, as they have only known each other for a few years, yet the carving looks to be years old

faust shows flashbacks of asra’s time at the palace to the apprentice

in the first flashback, asra mentions julian (whom he refers to as ilya) has begun to think he likes him, although his true affections lie with the apprentice; when faust asks where they are, he answers “a place i can’t follow, yet”

faust leads them to the library, where various books seem to have asra’s magic on them

if the apprentice touches the big tattered tome, they experience a flashback between asra and muriel; muriel pleads asra not to go to the palace, however asra argues the palace has resources he needs

muriel says “and when he rips your heart out?” to which asra replies “he’ll have to get me, first. he’s weak and dying. what could he do? throw his medicine at me? he was dangerous once, i know, but i can handle him”

if the apprentice touches the elegant purple codex, they experience a flashback between asra and nadia; she’s finishing explaining the properties of a fern to asra, and warns him that it’s poisonous before he can try to eat it

if the apprentice touches the gilded monstrosity, they experience another flashback; this time, lucio is heard yelling at julian before julian exits his room; he had attempted to get rid of his plague by using leeches, which didn’t work

if the apprentice touches the alluring volume, they experience another flashback, this one between asra and the apprentice; asra is helping them pick what to wear for the upcoming masquerade

the apprentice expresses confusion over this; they don’t remember ever going to the masquerade with asra, as they didn’t know each other at the time

after touching an oversized red tome, named composium on the stupendencies of the fabric of the human form, the apprentice experiences a flashback between asra and julian

in it, julian’s feelings for asra are clear, however asra is not interested

julian warns asra he shouldn’t keep slacking off and try to actively search for a cure to the red plague, as the count will die without it, and julian is worried “he’ll take you with him"

asra ignores his warnings and leaves, with julian resolving to “make him see reason”

the apprentice is confused about the nature of their relationship and, depending on the player’s choice, can attempt to find out more about them

if the player chooses “i need to see it”, they see a vision of the past wherein julian goes to the shop to speak to asra

when julian asks about what he’s doing in the backroom, asra says it’s “just a magic trick” that is “something from one of those ridiculous tomes”

asra asks if he wants to help, to which julian agrees eagerly; asra draws blood from julian’s hand and, when asked what he used the blood for, says “i’m not sure. i won’t know until it happens. perhaps nothing, perhaps...”

asra warns he can’t give julian what he wants, however julian assures him he’s fine with that; the two then first engage in what appears to be a purely sexual relationship

the apprentice thinks about their memory loss; their first memory is of meeting asra and beyond that there is nothing, any attempt to remember results in headaches

asra has always told them not to try and remember the past, and they have apparently not spoken much about it afterwards

when the apprentice seeks out to asra, he says “i think you’re ready now” and encourages them to reach into the fountain and take his hand

he then pulls them to where he is, which he refers to as an oasis, “a gateway, from one world into the next”

if the player has the apprentice ask why he didn’t tell them about their missing past before, he admits he tried to trigger their memories, but the apprentice would always go catatonic and would only “go back to normal” if he took the memories away again; he kept trying, in a variety of different ways

later, a shadow in the oasis calls to the apprentice, only for asra to stop them from listening to the call; when they turn back, the growing darkness and the shadow are gone

JULIAN’S ROUTE

portia admits that julian is her brother, and if asked, reveals she didn’t know he was back in vesuvia and has no idea why

the apprentice notices red in the banks and stream near a small, isolated part of the palace; the trees nearby are dying as a result

they follow the stream, which leads to one of many aqueducts that provide water for vesuvia’s citizens; “crimson poison” is in the city’s water supply, unbeknownst to anyone

when the apprentice brings this up to julian, he dismisses it and calls it “harmless” as the red plague is over

julian explains that asra cursed julian as a “parting gift”: he can now heal a person’s injuries, however he experiences their injury for a short time as a consequence

julian and the apprentice hide in the house of a person named mazelinka; we learn he often hides there when evading the palace guards

if the player asks julian why he came back, he explains he needs answers and wants to find out the truth; he adds he’d like to ask asra some questions

if the player asks julian if he killed the count, he replies that he asks himself the same thing, before admitting that he doesn’t remember if he did

NADIA’S ROUTE

nadia reveals to the apprentice that her constant headaches are because she has memory loss; whenever she tries to remember something, a headache stops her

she doesn’t remember the count whatsoever, though does know she was married to him for a long time, and the last thing she remembers is moving to vesuvia (which was years ago)

the apprentice informs her of their own memory loss, and that they had dealt with headaches themself before; they realize their shared loss of memories can’t be a coincidence

what nadia has learned so far: julian was seen escaping from count lucio’s room while it was on fire by multiple eyewitnesses; he later confessed to killing the count, only to escape from the dungeon the night before he was to be executed for the crime

nadia’s currently keeping her missing memories a secret; only portia---and now the apprentice---knows the truth

nadia and the apprentice learn from consul valerius, who was in the count’s wing on the night of lucio’s murder, that the courtiers (praetor vlastomil, pontifex vulgora, procurator volta, and quaestor valdemar) were there before him

he recounts that julian was inside the bedroom, and the courtiers were “shrieking things as they gathered around the door. at first [he] assumed they were after the doctor. some of the things they said... [he] remember[s] one. ‘he won’t get away with this.’ [he] assumed...”

the reason behind the courtiers’ presence in the wing is unknown, apart from valdemar’s as he was head physician; they were attempting to enter the count’s room when julian came outside, however the courtiers didn’t try to arrest him until valerius revealed himself

valerius confirms the count was one of the last victims of the red plague, however this was kept secret; the count invited experts to the palace as he wanted the cure for himself

if asked why he went to the count’s rooms, valerius becomes visibly uncomfortable and does not answer the question

portia informs the apprentice how some time after count lucio’s death, nadia “entered a deep sleep”; when portia began working at the palace, nadia had been asleep for almost a year

three months ago, nadia suddenly and inexplicably woke up, which coincides with her memory loss

as said earlier, if you find / know anything integral to the plot that’s not mentioned before, or if you believe i may have made a mistake somewhere, do contact me and let me know! :)

[beowulfs-booty-call]

Slow burn/fake date/enemies to lovers - Shiro, Odin Arrow, Ike

I can’t believe people sent me this, PARTICULARLY PERFECT ONES TOO HONESTLYYYYYYY

So, because I’m a huge ass fan of you Jordi, and because I love writing, I’m gonna do something wicked with the 41% of battery I have left: I’m gonna write a wee bit of what I choose, for each character and me! That way I can practice writing and also be able to answer your ask a bit more exciting!

SUPER LONG POST AHEAD, BE WARNED!

Shiro: (Slow burn)

Shiro definitely strikes me as a dude who I’d slow burn it with, tbh. There’s a lot of tension there that I think both of us would be caught up in before long lmfao.

It was meant to be a simple mission, enter the planet, find any response of life on the frequencies that would fight against the Galra and escape before Lotor and his crew could access.

Shiro breathed, he was not useful for this mission. Without the black lion, and effectively, his own bond with it, he was by no means a threat to anything besides hand to hand combat with his arm. Which was exactly why he was there in the first place.

Slipping into the vacuum of the space between him and the ship, Shiro pulled himself to the darkness. His breathing was the only thing that sounded human to his ears, attempting to flit through the ship’s interior. “Breathe. Breathe.” Mantra said, and patience at ease. Then the speed came and instantly for what seemed like a millennia, the ship and its pilot came to a green clad planet of prosperity.

The lions had already been planned to find other ways to intercept Lotor onto the course of the war. And Shiro? Shiro was headed to a “Earth like planet” where the people would welcome him and offer him democratic counsel so he may convince them to fight against the Galran prince.

But that was almost 6 quintant’s ago, Shiro was already welcomed by the democratic alliance that was held on the planet and was beheld to feasts amongst feasts (which, perhaps he did admit he cheated on his training for the first day before refusing outright later in.) before he could even muster the words to speak.

In front of him lay the counsel of the planet, Nihilan, its inhabitants almost Altean, though far from the more archetypes Coran and Allura had. In front of him was men and women who wore golden antiquated jewelry that shone in his eyes, a mirthy gaze that was almost as gaudy as their dress. Their own clothing, as regal as they may have seemed, shown the body to the elements, with cut fabrics that draped capes or tails, yet cut and curved along the body to show one’s physical prowess, if anything. Shirogane made note not to watch the much more happier elder, who’s entire body was cast to the rest of the public eye with gusto.

“Ah, yes...” He had uttered, the elder began to touch his digits to his cheeks. The flesh decorated with a sort of powder akin to what Shiro had seen from Coran’s visual training video.

“Voltron has led the force against the enemy for eons, mayhaps, even longer than we anticipate in our understanding...” The elder continued, Shiro nodded, happy to not have to “try” and eat another creature that laid on the planet’s “desert” coastline as the other quintant.”But there enlies the problem, Paladin. There exists a point in which we must ask, will Voltron be able to fight for our people? Lest we dissolve our own planet’s wealth to the Galra?”

Shiro stood up, eager to debate his position and possibly leave as soon as possible: “Your honor,”

“Father, my child...” The elder tutted, his words softened though the counsel’s gaze did not falter.

“Ah, “father”, then... Voltron has led the force against the Galra for as long as you’ve lived, that may be true, but we can’t fight the Galra alone. Not without your help. We may be an ancient weapon, we may be the hope of the future... We may be-”

“Cowards!’

Shiro’s voice hushed, the counsel gasping at the accusation pointed at the Paladin of the Black Lion.

At the edge of the lush palace, in his own “glory”, beheld a man nearly Shiro’s age, as tall as he, hair curled and midnight black... But with a gaze so sharp his eyes cut like the Blade of Marmora. 

“You speak to these men and women as though they have bravery and honor, Paladin!” The Nihilan continued, growling and pointing his finger towards the counsel, an open book in his hand and an emerald cape flowing behind him. His chest heaved, captured by an open suit that showed his torso with his arms covered by see through fabric. On his forehead, lied a piece of leather that coiled a gemstone that shone a beautiful purple despite the greens, and his face pouted with hair flicked about under his chin.

“These councilmen have no honor! Why, even they would give you to the hands of the Galra without listening to you!” He barked, one hand flipping through the tome while another beckoning to any would be opponents.

“Silence him!” “Dethroned brat!” “Can he truly be so bold?!”

Before he could react, Shiro watched as electricity shot out, and the next he knew, he blacked out as he felt a well placed blow to his neck from the shadows.

Shiro groaned, his eyes flittering to adjust to the dull light of a ship’s glow, the stars in front of him as he slowly gained sight of his surroundings. Green, beaten, and tugging his own ship. He was kidnapped, he was sure--

“Ah, you’ve awakened, Paladin.” 

Shiro turned, still trying to grasp his environment. The man who had interrupted his counsel with the Nihilans...

“I apologize for knocking you out in such a brute way. I admit, I myself was not expecting a Paladin of Voltron to be used as bait to be given to the Galra...” He paused, picking at the horns that pushed above his ears. Shiro’s eyes focused, and he finally could see who truly was near him, in the next seat to him. The man held horns that grew like a goat’s, though it curled upward the circular, and his beard was reminiscent to what seemed like a child’s story about a demon.

And yet, there was a passionate red glow on his face, as he shifted view from the passenger to the space that lay in front of them.

“...The Galra murdered my father and made the councilmen as their puppets in politics. They were planning on sending you to those thieves so that we would be safe from them.” The man looked down.

“I’m... Sorry. I could not sit aside and watch what practically happened to me, happen to another being.”

Shiro breathed, letting the info seep into him. In his stupor, he moved his hand to steady his head, as he sat slumped in the chair. However, he missed, and it lightly dragged against the colorful pants of the pilot before shifting back on course.

“Thanks...” He groaned, feeling the key part of a headache coming on.

“Nothing to fret, Paladin.” The Nihiladin chuckled, “I’m not pilot like you, but, getting you out was my first priority. A few of us Nihiladins do not agree with the Galra, much less the councilmen. ...We shall help you, after all, it is the least we can do for your troubles here on this day.”

Shiro rubbed his forehead.

“I’ve already patched a signal to the supposed “Castle” your ship had coordinates to. I must say... It’s rather interesting how you have acted, Paladin.”

“Oh?”

“Your hair is white... I’ve read in my tomes, that this is caused by quintessence... You wouldn't happen to have fought with the unholy witch of legends, have you?”

Witch...

Witch...

“...Haggar?” Shiro rasped, voice thickened due to the sleep he had endured.

“Shisa!” The nihiladin hissed, control now lost for a moment on the steering wheel. “She lives indeed then!”

Shiro nodded weakly, tired from the blow that still lingered on him.

“I see... If this is the case, my people will help you with even more reason now... I ask, however, that you come back, when you are rested to help me shut down the Galra as it stands. We have stations that the resistance and I have fought to take down... But for every one piece of this toxin we cure, 3 pieces more take its place...”

Shiro nodded, words not finding him, but his eyes betraying him and glancing at the similar figure’s curves and musculature. It was toned, yet strong, but... A key impact that Shirogane could swear he knew from a mile away:

The look of a man who was starved for a very long time.

“You... Don’t eat.”

The Nihiladin blinked.

“You don’t either. I know myself the body of a man who does not eat for himself. He requires others to remind him because he gives all for them. It was but something my father once taught me.”

Shiro hummed, humbled slightly.

“We, the castle, have food you can eat, you can--”

“Rest? By all means. But you yourself deserves it as well. Even heroes need rest...?”“Shiro. Shiro is fine.”

“Shiro, then, even heroes need rest. You may call me... “Wolf”, it’s but one of the names I go by now, after... Anyway, I will follow you to the castle, however, you will need to feast, after all. You seem like the creature who could eat an army’s worth of food.”

Shiro laughed, it was probably true, but he hadn’t eaten despite the feasts, that Hunk’s cooking was still on the mind.

“If I can rest, you can eat. I think we both need our strength for the upcoming battle.” He replied, not sure what exactly he wanted to tell the Nihiladin. It was as though they were brothers at arms, the amount of illogical events that had happened to him during his stay.

“Paladin of the black lion... I eagerly take up your proposal, then.”

“Ha, then it’s a date.” Shiro huffed, before slumping once more to his chair, eyes finally closing slowly.

“A date then. There’s still much to do, so, let’s try this one step at a time, Shiro.”

Shiro nodded, sleep finally coming to his aid as the Nihiladin continued steering towards the answering frequencies of the Castle of the Lions.

However, what lied ahead, was still the matter of explaining his absence to the rest of the Paladins...

Odin Arrow (Enemies to Lovers)

I wanna say Odin is that sort of... “Me but in a whole other situation “me”, so to speak. It’d be interesting being pinned to the opposite side only to find there’s more than just being someone else’s puppet.

Beowulf gasped, here he was, Seidre leaving him at a crucial moment in the fight against the supposed Pedri Nanesgani’s host: Odin Arrow of the infamous Arrow family. Seidre explained, “An old friend of me needs to repay for... His many debts,” He said, voice low and drawling as he whispered in Beowulf’s ear.

“He needs to be taught a lesson.” 

“A lesson?”

“I think that boy ought to be taught one, and from what I heard... He is truly a pathetic weakling...”

“I... see... Father, why fight him?” “Isn’t it obvious, my boy? Destroy the hosts, and we will get the wish we wanted from Titan himself.” “T-Titan?”

Odin slugged another punch towards the assailant in flannel. His fist was grabbed and pushed away as the other boy silently edged closer.

“W-What do you want?!” Odin shouted, Pedri too was silent from his recent stand in with Ava on the crash landed planet they had found themselves.

Beowulf looked down. He didn’t want to do this. He didn't want to fight, not again.

“A-Answer m-me.” Odin called, before kicking the other with a low sweep. Beowulf groaned, but picked himself up, before Odin pushed him down, grabbing his collar as he was stuck on the ground.

“...”

Odin punched the ground near his assailant.

“I w-won’t a-ask again.”

Beowulf looked up at him, before Seidre’s silken words lilted to his minds.

He spat in his face.

Odin angrily growled and pulled the boy’s collar and him up, before slamming him down.

“If y-you won't t-talk...” Odin huffed, picking himself up and shaking his head. “I w-won’t bother. I-I’m better than that.” He said, pulling his shirt up to rub his face clean. 

“G-Go jump off a--”

“A family.” Beowulf said, quietly.

“What?”

Beowulf sighed, still on the floor. He curled up, body aching slightly, but he was too tired to try fighting again.

“I want to be loved...” 

Odin hmph’ed as he pulled his pipe from his pocket.

“You’ve got a w-weird way of sh-showing it, kid.”

Beowulf sat up, hugging his knees as the other man watched.

“You don’t get it. Your host to something evil, aren't you? And you’re fighting for someone too, right?”

Odin looked on, eyes softening in his gaze.

“My... Father isn’t... Here, anymore. I just... I just want him back. Look, I didn’t want to do this, I swear it... But please understand me here, we’re both fighting for the people we care about.”

Odin puffed.

“And w-what will trying t-to p-punch me have a-any thing t-to getting y-your f-father back?”

Beowulf sighed, pushing his hair back and felt his earrings jingle as he slowly pulled himself up. “He said, if I taught you a lesson... Maybe, maybe we’d get a wish from Titan.”

Odin was fuming at the name, but kept his glare renewed. “Titan? You m-must mean that c-cult. How pathetic.”

“W-What?” Beowulf questioned, eyes grimacing.

“You really think, your father will be brought back by that sham? You must really be shooting for someone else here.” Odin drawled, his pipe smoking purple and his eyes a dark fuchsia. “W-why don’t you t-tell us why you’re really here.” Beowulf looked to the lush ground, lips beginning to dry faster.

“Answer me.”

“I... I don’t know.”

“W-what do you mean you don’t k-know. Aren’t y-you here to save your f-father?”

“I... Seidre... Look, I don’t need to answer to you! I just need your dumb demon to be gone so I can have my father again!”

Odin humphed once more, he pointed to his chest. “Then I suppose you know you have to kill me. I know you can do it.”

“What?” 

Odin’s eyes flicked dark as the words dripped in sarcasm.

“What are you, a d-dog? Don’t you realize that you have to kill me to get rid of me?”

“Y-You’re lying!”

“Of w-what? I’m not scared to die.” Odin beckoned, arms held out to accept the sentence. “Go o-on. D-do it. I’m waiting.”

Beowulf didn't answer, nor did he moved. He carried no gun, hid a small dagger in his pocket, what even was he trying to accomplish?

“Tch, w-wonderful.”

“No, wait...”

“I d-don’t think I’d wait for someone who just tried to punch me to save his daddy from god knows what. I’m f-fighting for s-someone I love. You just fight to be called a “good dog” like the little lost puppy you are.”

Odin spat on the ground.

“Ridiculous, I lost my ring to be assaulted by another insane cultist. Olai will love this.” He noted, before turning around to walk.

Beowulf snapped his fingers, almost desperately. “Seidre, Seidre, Seidre...”

Odin looked back, curious.

“You’re wrong. You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong! You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone! You don’t know what it’s like to be hated! You don’t even know me! And I don’t want you to! I don’t want to fight! I just want my dad back! I want Seidre back!”

Odin didn’t speak, he observed the snapping fingers. 

Immediately, when his eyes looked to who was snapping, it was instead a young girl, far too familiar.

“I hate you!” she said, in her voice, frail as ever and crying.

“I hate everything about you! You’re just like me and I hate you! I never want to see you again!”

Odin’s heart was breaking, “Magpie...” He reached his hand out to her, but suddenly she sped off the other way, crying as she ran away. 

“Leave me alone!”

Jingling earrings snapped Odin back to where he was, the only thing remaining of where the young girl stood, was one simply black earring, with the cross still attached. Odin fell to the ground, a tree stump behind him as he analyzed the piece of jewelry, and he stretched his legs out onto the floor. Pipe puffing, purple smoke wrapped around him as he sat, meanwhile, the crying young girl sat on a tree branch away from him, drying her tears on the red flannel he wore. He scraped his scalp furiously as he mentally snapped his fingers, clutching his lonely right ear.

He didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t even want to see him. Yet, here he was, snapping his fingers and chucking what looked like a silver ring with a jewel over to the other boy after using his illusions. It was terrible, to do so, he’d say if it were anyone else...

“I see you hesitate...” A pair of coarse claw like hands pawed delicately on Beowulf’s shoulders, one softly stroking his cheek as the other massaged his back.

“What do you want, Seidre?”

The hands stopped.

“Is that anyway for a son to address his father?”

...

“Sorry Papa...”

“That’s better, now...” Seidre’s head appeared, decked out in his opponent’s fangs and bones and snickered as he watched his host toss the ring out towards Odin.

“The first to retrieving our wish... Oh, I can just feel the excitement!”

“...”

Beowulf kept silent, he kept watch on Odin. Every breath, every facial movement, even the soft smile the other proudly displayed when Odin put the ring back where it belonged, on a silver chain to wear.

It was hard to admit, perhaps...

“Come along now... We couldn’t destroy Pedri, but who’s not to say the other hosts aren’t around the corner?” Seidre spoke, shifting out of view.

“...Yes, papa.” Beowulf turned, ready to leave, before looking back at the infamous Odin Arrow, in his own pathetic state.

“...” 

Maybe, they were like each other. Maybe they were just on the wrong side... Maybe Seidre...

Maybe he really wasn't fighting for anyone... Just himself...

Even if there were questions bubbling everywhere, there was but one tiny truth to be told...

He had to admit, despite hating Odin for what he was, and for only speaking the truth,

Odin was cute when he was happy.

Ike (Fake Date)

We all know canonically Ike has no gf / bf, so, why not be the unrequited crush?

The merchants would have been furious with him. No, in fact, Aimee would have had his head on a platter if she had ever found out that the young man was traveling and ended up becoming the temporary merchant of the famous Greil Mercenaries.

He had everything they needed:

Vulneraries, Concoctions, Iron blades and weaponry forged by his own hard labor...

But there was something no forge or gold could get him.

It was true love.

And it was sappy, sure. Words of a bard would scoff at how simply those 4 words would sound, but here he was... Contemplating yet fantasizing.

He, a lowly merchant who’s only worth in battle was a flimsy sword and a text of fire that would singe if he wasn’t careful: He was by no means anything useful to the person his heart soar to.

With blue hair and a sword of tarnished gold, it was hard not to fall head over heels with him. He was strong, he was blunt, and his sword was as sharp as his merit.

And yet, despite all his training, all his mental gymnastics to learn basic magic... He simply knew that Ike was never meant to be his, much less, perhaps, anyone. And he persisted anyway, training with a sword day in and day out in secret with the mercenaries, in particular a chatty woman by the name of Mia, who was by far more than happy to gossip about “her boss”, not that he needed to know.

He learned to cook meat for the mercenaries, at a decent price he might add... But no man of blue hair stepped into the shop to purchase the savory chicken that would lay on the fire roasting. Only the hungry trainees and the even more insatiable Laguz would waltz in, drink a vulnerary or two and lend a laugh as they went about their purchases.

But it was the Great Annabelle’s Ball that seared him off his debilitating gloom... Only the finest merchants were allowed to attend, where the weapons of the gods were on display, as well as royals who were looking to partake in rich and lavish hedonism were proudly adorned in the nearby city’s richer districts. Oh, it’d be a shame not to go, of course! However...

“Only 2 may attend, a guest is mandatory.” 

It suddenly did not seem as such a shame not to go.

But... Perhaps...

Was it worth it..?

“A-Ah, h-hello there, how can I...”

“...Help me?” The man asked, scratching the back of his head. The green cloth wrapped around his head stuck out like a sore thumb, and the azure hair that glistened in the noon sunlight: He had just finished training, he was sure of it.

“R-Right, what’ll it be?”

Ike paused, momentarily stringing the words along mentally.

“Actually, it seems I’ll have to ask you that. As you can see, a few of the mercenaries told me about you...”

His heart was beating.

He knew it.

He was found out.

Oh by Naga he was going to kill Mi--

“And I heard about your ball, the one about the royals showing up and all that?”

By all that is holy...

“I was hoping if I could attend with you.”

By all that is holy, blessed be Mia’s-

“I’d like to see if perhaps the mercenaries can achieve anymore connections via this ball, perhaps if we can extend our reach, more will join our cause, after all. I hope you can understand if that’s at all fine with you, friend.”

“Ah...”

It wasn’t meant to be, and for that, he sighed.

He knew it too well, but, alas... It was better to have loved than to have never loved at all.

“You bet, I’ll make the arrangements. Even if we can’t, ah, find something suitable for you, I’m sure I can work something up for you, fitting fee for fitting in, wouldn’t you say?”

Ike nodded, people weren’t his most passionate subject, but those he could be simply himself with... They were his go-to.

“Tell ya what, you come in here tomorrow night, I’ll polish up the finest merchandise I have, and we go amongst the nobles like Gods ourselves, what’d ya say to that, long tall and blue?”

He had to say it, oh by the gods he had to, even if he was going to be turned down.

“Understood. Tomorrow night it is then.”

The merchant smiled. To spend the night with a radiant hero...

Ike turned around, feet just about to step out of the caravan.

“Ah, actually, I’ve heard you sell meat so well, Oscar even complimented it... I’d like to try some.”

It was certainly something to die for.

Honestly, this was so much fun, yet, like, so HARD TO DO LIKE OH MY GOD DUDE hwsjpidk[fv

But I love you s o much for bringing these asks in!!! I’ve got to do the other one for you soon, kay???

[yeoldontknow]

Hero: 6

Author’s Note: i meant for this chapter to be so much longer, but it grew so much bigger than i planned so i’ve decided to break it up. why am i like this? anyway, still in love with yixing~~ i hope everyone enjoys this chapter! thank you to everyone who has read/messaged <333 Song for this chapter: Death Bell - ††† (Crosses) Genre: Vampire!Chanyeol; thriller; horror; suspense; drama; eventual smut Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Rating (this chapter): R Warnings (this chapter): swearing; references to PTSD Word Count: 3,762

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If you were free, where would you go?

If money, time, and distance were inconsequential, what would you see?

If you weren’t about to die, who might you become?

You ask yourself these questions, now in the morning silence as you strain to hear the lapping of waves on shore. They turn in your mind, sending your imagination half across the world and back again, as you think and think of all the ways you are wholly incomplete. Part of you, as you suck on and square away your answers, thinks you should be ashamed. This could be the day you die. These walls may be the last you see, but home is not, and never will be, on your mind.

Your head imagines Paris while your heart wanders aimlessly through London, and you're far away and absent. Body left behind, your soul explores all the better places, all the loud places, you never allowed yourself to be. There's stone beneath your fingers, crumbling against your touch. There’s wind in your hair and through the alleys of your lungs, smelling of sweet bread and foreign cars - and you are whispering your secrets into the air to set them free. None of these things are memories. None of these things are tangible, but you miss them with a futuristic sort of nostalgia that sounds like maybe if. There’s a yearning in your chest, a wail of malcontent, for a place for your voice and your ghost to go.

These places could have been yours. These fabrications of a lost mind could have been sentimental details of a bygone day. Instead, you are filled with a prosthetic life and a regret that contorts you into small shapes. You are mangled by it, forced into someone comprised entirely of woe and only now do you start to bargain with your heart. 

If you are freed, you will escape. If you survive, you will live. 

Pleas always fall on deaf ears and, even still, you can’t hear the roll of the tide to carry them away.

Opening your eyes to acknowledge the barren truth of your surroundings, you focus on the silence and let it settle over your skin like dust. The screams of the night subsided hours ago, the echoes fading into a din like wind chimes before dissipating altogether. Now, all that remains is the static tension of knowledge that men were clutching death by its throat.

Several hours after Chanyeol left the room, Yixing maintained his promise and returned with a plate of hot food. You expected him to be cautious or wary, furious and wrathful, but instead he carried with him a small smile and soft eyes. Upon his entry, the comforting warmth of his very being reached out to you, smoothing your hard edges, and you nestled into your bindings with a childlike calm. Trust and forgiveness seemed to drip from his hands, mouth, and soul, and you were envious of his gentleness.

Your meal together had been cut short, peace shattered by a guttural howl that sounded as though God himself had decided to die and heaven had begun to revolt. Horror had moved in, consuming the building in a shadow of trauma, and Yixing, delicately feeding you, had frozen his movements. Inside, he was collapsing, breaking down and already starting to mourn - you could see it all over his face - as if he suddenly knew everything that would or could come from the hell that had opened its mouth.

He left without a word, your plate unceremoniously dropped on the floor as he ran abruptly out of the room. This, you thought, was a call meant only for him and now you understood why he had been so tender with you. His very power was an act of war time valiance and your silence had been a gift.

You'd leant forward, attempting to fight off the goats and pigs with your head as you struggled to continue eating, tongue your only utensil. Little progress was made, the eagerness of the animals winning you over and you slumped back with a hungry sigh against the cage.

With every scream, the animals would jostle in shock but somehow you knew when they were about to start. You could feel it, a heat pushing against the walls and the door like an inferno had erupted just beyond your reach. In tides, it would pulse against the tin, soaring and crashing against the plaster before subsiding with a hollow cry. It wanted to come in, it wanted to eat, it wanted to consume and tear away the whole of the earth until all that was left was the black tar of remembrance.

Chanyeol was dying and, for a moment, you had the passing sensation you’d found your mirror. For a moment, your heart was absolutely breaking. You assumed it was merely out of sympathy for Yixing, but as the howls continued something in your chest constricted into a passionate need to help, to heal, to burn with him. Instinctively, your body recognize the noise and the fire as it's companion, a mate trapped in the punishing coils of perdition. Instinctively, you recognized this pain as yours and wanted to join in.

But then there were two. One was born of a hunger so ravenous and beastly you thought the sound itself would reap your soul, and the other truly awful in its tragedy. Anguish and torment manifested itself in one pure, blazing moment of sadness until there was nothing left of it at all. Neither were quaking in misery, the fire effectively put out and the whimpering of a kind heart entirely erased.

The silence extended across the coven like a cold hand, coming to rest in the ceiling and the metal so defiantly you thought every single man and monster had died. For hours, you sat waiting to be found and feasted upon. For hours, you made list after list of all the good, kind things you'd done in life and weighed it against the true darkness of your nature.

Once again, you were preparing to die. Once again, you were used to it.

Now with the gulls calling overhead, you think death for you will be a slow affair, one so complete and insidious you won't notice it until your eyes are already glazed with loss.

Yixing feeds you, but there's still an empty pit growing in your stomach and digging into pieces you didn't know you had. Yixing brings you water, but still your lips are pale and scabbed - rough like a dying desert - and you are parched, chewing your cheeks to drink your saliva.

Sometimes, when you find yourself in a humorous mood, you think on which of these will come first - dehydration or starvation. You're being pulled back from both so frequently you almost think the race is fair. You almost think you could survive them both long enough to break free. Almost.

The length of your life, its thread, is outlook, has become so uncompromisingly short you hardly allow room for faith or hope when you fantasize release. There is no future for you, not anymore, and that makes your daydreams infinitely more bitter.

Quietly, the door is opened and, before he can even step into the room, you know it is Yixing. A great relief crests over your bones, and your shoulders relax against the bars. You can smell the food he has brought with him, but mostly you can feel him. He's calling to you, already coddling your tired frame, and your heart reaches for him with needy fingers aching to feel good and whole once more.

Again, you are aware this is nothing but cruelty. His presence is a solace but it is also an addiction. Around him, you thrive and feel the strength of health blooming in the center of your chest. It makes you want to laugh in pleasure. It makes you want to cry, knowing that, inevitably, it will soon be gone.

You shuffle against the cage wall, scooting to your left to make room so he can sit beside you. Today the animals are impatient to let him in, already knowing he comes bearing food. Humming in delight at his chuckle, you turn to meet his gaze as he settles against you and gasp in horror.

His eyes are red, all the moisture pulled from them with blood creeping into veins and kissing his pupils. You’d grown to love his vibrant amber eyes and now the black of his irises has eaten all the light from within.

‘Yixing!’ 

His smile is somewhat sad, though the accompanying nod is reassuring and genial. ‘Don’t fret. I heal faster than the others, I just need to feed.’

Tiny, minute pieces of you bristle at this statement. You know in the caverns of your heart he will not feed on you, but his eyes seem to focus on you with an intensity born out of a miserable thirst. Briefly, you wonder what he must be suffering, encircling himself with flowing blood.

 The safety here is fragile, delicate in a way that makes the world around you feel like thin porcelain. At any moment, it may shatter and leave you bleeding out on the floor.

‘I meant what I said before,’ he adds, quietly. ‘I will never hurt you.’

‘I know.’

You wish you could reach out to touch him, lay a hand on his shoulder or brush the stray hair from his eyes. Instead, you fix an affable grin on your face and hope that the expression is reassuring. All the kindness you once carried in your heart has been drained, and you think of yourself as heavy and battleborn. But for him, maybe, you think you could be soft again.

You regard each other for several moments, both of you willing the other to feel some semblance of security; companions of wavering hope.

Eventually, Yixing sits up and the light seems to settle on him once more.

‘I’ve brought you a meal,’ he says brightly, changing the subject.

Eagerly dropping your gaze to the plate, you see that a platter of chicken, broccoli, and potatoes has been prepared for you. You know how these things should look, however you find that the colour of each item has dimmed as though they came from a hospital kitchen. There is no opportunity to feel disappointment, your mouth salivating at the thought of something other than the muscle of your cheeks.

Yixing collects pieces of each onto a fork, bringing it towards you carefully, and you launch yourself at it.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t finish feeding you, last night,’ he says, giggling at your fervor. His gaze momentarily wavers, gliding over to the overturned plate that has come to rest beneath a goat’s hoof. ‘Many things were out of my control.’

‘Don’t apologize.’ Your mouth is full, the words muffled by meat, so you swallow before continuing. ‘I heard the screaming. It sounded...biblical.’

There really is no other word for it. Holy in its terror; holy in its volume. It felt as though a plague had washed over the earth and all you could do was patiently wait your turn.

‘For a moment, it was.’

Silence befalls you both although it is not empty. It is filled with memories, yours and his, of the night previous. Yours, indirect and intangible, removed from the fray and filled with nothing but anxious anticipation. His, visceral and violent, and filled with nothing but the grim acceptance that worse things are yet to come. 

‘I think I should be the one apologizing,’ you say, finally, trying to break the awkward tension.

He looks up from the plate, where he had been subconsciously twirling food with the fork, and fixes an admonishing expression on his features.

‘You apologized last night.’ His tone is stern and serious as he says the words, and you see him fidget slightly as he softens himself to continue. ‘And I have already forgiven you.’

You can tell he means it, even through his red, dead eyes you can see the forgiveness trapped in the black. There, ensconced in death, is the truth that he forgave your trespasses before they were even enacted.

‘I know, but…’

Your sentence drifts into the ether as you search for the right words. Vividly, you recall the language used and the accusations thrown at you. It made you furious but, as the accusation crept its way through your mind and into your heart, you became suffused with a deep remorse. 

‘Chanyeol called it a violation,’ you explain, gingerly. ‘I don’t think I could apologize enough for that.’

He smiles, and you think the expression is odd in the wake of such conviction. ‘Those were Sire’s words, not mine.’

You nod in agreement, but still you are not satisfied. All around you, men have bent and bound you into shapes that made you feel brittle. Men, these last few days, have grabbed at you and ignored you - fiercely acknowledging your existence before leaving you to die like you were never there at all.

But Yixing, even the unseen shapes of him, has treated you with a mild sort of kindness. Not disingenuous, but one that was both new and distantly familiar, usually kept tucked away and reserved for those of his own kind. He likely never was this caring with a captive, let alone a human, and you know it's purely because he sees you for all your hidden potential.

Similar to how Chanyeol sees you as a weapon, Yixing can't make out what you are or what your purpose is, but where Chanyeol wanted to burn the heart out of you, Yixing wanted to learn you - wanted to see you.

‘You’re the only one who has truly shown me respect.’

You're breathless when you announce it, from relief and gratitude, glad to be able to say that even though you will likely die, at least one person recognized you for who you are: a warrior.

He continues to feed you in silence, occasionally balancing the plate on his knees as he helps you drink.

‘Can I ask you something?’ you ask, after several minutes of comfortable quiet.

For a moment he considers this and the oncoming question, head cocked slightly to the side. ‘You may ask, but you might not like the answer. I will always tell you a truth.’

His words don’t escape you: a truth, and you aren’t sure if it will be the truth you want or some form of his truth - possibly, the truth you need. Licking your lips, you press your back against the cage. You're bracing yourself for your question; you're bracing yourself for his answer.

‘What did you see of me?’

His eyes widen, but he is quick to hide this reaction, bringing his gaze to the wall straight ahead before speaking. He doesn't look at you when he does.

‘I didn't see memories, if that's what you're asking.’ He finally returns your stare, mouth set with a hint of a frown. ‘You didn't consent to that.’

‘But surely,’ you start, but then stop yourself with a sigh. ‘Yixing, I felt you inside me. You must have seen something?’

He releases a deep, shuddering sigh, remembering all the lonely parts of you - things spilling inside his head you had no control over. You watch his teeth tug on his bottom lip and then, releasing the breath you didn’t know he’d been holding, he looks deep into your eyes and smiles. 

‘I saw the essence of you. You were broken inside, shattered really, and bleeding, but you were holding on.’ He pauses, letting the words hang in the air and drop over you - their weight making your chest feel pressed and constricted. ‘Anyone else would have died - you should have been dead, for days. But you held on. It was like you were on fire.’

 ‘You sound almost nervous about me,’ you snort, trying to lighten the mood. His statements have made you slightly uncomfortable, partly because you had no idea how bad off you were and partly, maybe mostly, because another piece of Chanyeol’s diatribe echoes in your mind. 

‘To me, you’re as good as a weapon.’

‘It's always terrifying to look true power in the eye,’ he continues, his tone unmoved. ‘I admit, there were things about you that made me hungry in a way I haven’t felt for decades. I’ve grown used to the flavor of donated blood, but the sound of your heart…I’ve never heard such a ferocious beat.’

Now, for the first time since you’ve met him, Yixing takes the shape of someone bloodthirsty. Now that the words have fallen from his lips, you feel foolish to have seen him as anything other than dangerous. You’d thought the cruelty of him was nothing but the oncoming absence of safety but the reality, the true horror of him, is that he is every inch a false sense of security. Polite, gentle, and beautiful, requesting consent at every turn, nurturing all your pliable parts until he embodies nothing but trust. And then, then when you are least aware of it, he drinks you dry, humming at the way he’s made you so sweet.

Even still, knowing this, you look at him and don’t feel afraid. You look at him and you feel empowered, like maybe, if you tried, this could be you too. 

‘There's something inside of you I have never witnessed in another human,’ he says, bringing you back to the present moment. ‘What you do with it depends entirely on choice. You may save or destroy us all, and that sort of power should never be trifled with.’

You aren’t sure what to say at this, because, really, you aren’t sure if you even have that much agency. Everyone has looked at you as though you were a bomb or an omen, but you’re still locked in a cage and don’t remember the last time you were able to stand on your feet.

You aren’t sure what to say, so you deflect his statements entirely.

‘For someone who hasn’t been human for centuries, you’re a damn good cook.’ You nod your head in the direction of the plate, messy now and nearly empty.

‘Oh, I didn’t make this.’

You cock your head, returning his bright smile. ‘No?’

‘Kyungsoo did,’ he replies, although there is a slight twinge of his discomfort in his voice. 

‘Who is that one?’ you ask, narrowing your eyes as try to place a face to the name. You remember hearing it, before you were yanked from the trunk and dragged away, but you were too busy trying to stare down the gates of hell. ‘Is he the one who brings the bucket for the pigs?’

‘You know him as DO.’ 

A chill snakes its way through your body, muscles tensing at the name. You remember him now, his eyes empty and ice cold and violent. The thought of his face makes you feel slightly ill, remembering how it laughed at the concept of living, how it contorted into such an aggressive shape as he ripped the steering wheel out of the dash. You contemplate vomiting on the spot, emptying yourself of him for good.

‘I know how you must feel about him,’ Yixing says quickly, trying to calm you. He’s reading you like a book and he knows the harm you’d put yourself through just to be rid of all the traces of him. ‘But he does wish to make amends.’

‘If he’s really that sorry, he should be standing outside this cage - or sitting in it - saying those fucking words,’ you spit. ‘To my face. Where the fuck is he then, huh?’ 

The last syllables of your words rose to a howling shriek and now, as you pant with wet lips, their shrill ring surrounds you and Yixing with menace.

‘There it is again, the fire,’ he whispers.

‘It’s not fire!’ you shout, ‘It’s just common decency! Trust is something you earn on your own, not by proxy. He’s a fucking coward!’

You fall silent, seething and fingers thrashing against their binds. Yixing lets you remain this way, watching you cautiously, possibly waiting to see if you’ll cause any damage to yourself he will need to heal. You rage rushes over you in spasms, your shoulders shaking at the memory of everything. Breath coming in short bursts, you close your eyes and start to count backwards in threes from one hundred, visualizing the numbers in your head to take every other image away. Yixing presses his side against you, perhaps sending a wave of protection through the atmosphere, and your breathing slowly starts to return to normal.

When you feel well enough to greet the world again, you look to Yixing and see him grinning.

‘So you trust me then?’ he nudges you.

‘I dare say I do,’ you concede, though part of you fears you’ll come to regret saying it. ‘As foolish as that may be.’

For a brief, altogether too short moment, he presses his forehead against yours and all of you, every damaged, raw piece of you, glows. And then, as soon as he came, he is gone, rising to take both plates away.

‘Can I ask you one more thing?’ Your voice sounds small in its sadness, already missing him though he’s hardly left your side.

‘Again, yes but you may not like the answer.’

‘Why do you all have two names?’

‘Ah,’ he says, looking down at the floor for a moment, a fond expression tugging at his lips. ‘Vampires actually have three names.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. The one we were given at birth, the one our Sire gives to us, and the one we use for war.’

You furrow your brow in confusion. ‘I’m sorry if I shouldn’t bring this up, but I’ve seen...you, the human you. Your human name is Yixing. Why does Chanyeol get to call you that if he’s given you a different name? And why does he have to rename you at all?’

‘These questions will all be answered tonight,’ he says, ominously. ‘After the ceremony, if you have any questions I think they are best directed at Sire.’

You find yourself nodding, watching as he removes himself from the cage. Suddenly, you stumble over his words and you find yourself even more confused. 

‘Wait - what ceremony? Tonight? Yixing!’

But he’s already gone.

[mysticalcrusadementality]

Scars Along My Heart (A Frisk, Gaster and Sans Love Triangle)

 Damn… That was faster than I thought; I actually didn’t expect anyone to give this post any mind. But the people have spoken so… On with the show!

Also since Tumblr won’t let me italicize or bold texts anymore this key will help you keep track of who is saying/thinking what.

Frisk: (F)

The voice (better know as Chara): (V)

Gaster: (G)

Anything without “” is the characters thoughts

Anything inside {} is said in sign language

~}{~

Frisk waved good-bye to Undyne as she dashed away, most likely heading back to Snowdin while Alphys and Papyrus trained. She chuckled at the thought; if she was honest it seemed like a pretty good fit to have the proud skeleton be her mentor. Being around someone so upbeat and hopeful even in the face of adversity was just the thing for such a shy little introvert like the royal scientist. The content smile on her face soon fell away though as she turned to face the road ahead, dread oozing and spilling over her soul like toxic sludge at the thought of facing Asgore. Again. Mechanically her feet brought her forward, each step dragging across the damp ground as the apprehension seemed to physically weigh her down the closer she got to the castle. It wasn’t even facing off against the king that made her feel this way, it was facing HIM and she’d have to be a real moron to think he wouldn’t have something else planned for her after she’d finished this little side quest he’d sent her on. God just thinking about going through all of that a second time made her feel exhausted. Physically, mentally, spiritually… Exhausted. Unconsciously her arms rose up to wrap themselves around her torso, her grip on her forearms tight as she hugged herself to have even the smallest form of comfort. Even if it was only from herself… (V) You know it doesn’t have to be this way. It whispered in the same way a snake would try to entice its next victim. (F) Oh god not you again. She thought back with a groan. (V) Oh you better believe it doll face. It giggled mockingly. The voice was back, the same voice that had been following her since the beginning of her journey in this strange subterranean world. At first the human hadn’t thought much of it, after all if she had landed in a hole inhabited by anthropomorphic goats with fire magic, little voices in her head that occasionally gave helpful advice was probably the most normal thing to happen in this particular situation. It was weird, but it was nice to have some company. That is until their suggestions started to take on a, darker tone. After exiting the Ruins and making their way to the inviting warmth that was Snowdin Town, the young woman had encountered several formidable enemies. Those battles had been difficult, testing her endurance and ability to think on her feet. More than once had her impatience and recklessness caused her to meet her end, it was only her strange ability to turn back the clock that allowed her to be where she was now. Each time it happened it felt like waking up from a bad dream, an experience she hated no matter how many times it happened. Despite this the girl still tried to end these battles peacefully, Toriel had showed her the kindness they were capable of and in turn she wished to return it and show monsters that she was not here to hurt them. Her companion on the other hand had seen things differently, growing more and more frustrated with each defeat. Insisting that taking a more aggressive approach was the best course of action and that a hardy swing of the toy knife she’d picked up would have been enough to scare her opponents away, or better yet getting rid of them altogether. It was then the human decided that she didn’t like this voice anymore. The monsters had hurt her yes, but unlike Flowey they were never malicious. They’d talked about taking her soul to the king and how it was the last one they needed to finally be free. At the time Frisk hadn’t fully understood what that meant, but she was smart enough to conclude that the monsters were being “trapped” by something and they believed that she had what they needed to escape. They weren’t evil, just desperate. And that was enough to solidify her decision to keep showing them kindness, she couldn’t truly die anyway so she might as well put this “gift” to good use and see if she could help. At that the voice grew distant and cold, leaving her to fend for herself until she ended up in another taxing battle that had her struggling to stay alive. When this happened they always sounded delighted, as if they enjoyed her pain while they tried to persuade her into indulging in some “well deserved payback” as they put it. But she refused. She was not a killer and they did not deserve to die for wanting to be free. Reading the prophecy in Waterfall the first time had left her with a number of emotions to shift through; anger at the humans of the past for their actions came the quickest. Sadness soon followed at the realization of what they had done to monster kind set in and last was a peculiar happiness that she had followed her instincts and continued to spare those that tried to fight her. (F) What do you want? As if I didn’t know already. Rolling her eyes at her luck. (V) Oh, someone’s feeling snarky at the moment. The monsters giving you trouble? Are you finally beginning to see things my way? It honestly disgusted Frisk to notice how they didn’t even try to hide that sick, sadistic glee in their words. (F) Fat-chance Casper, now piss off! She shouted back. The sparks of anger igniting the fire in her soul and prompted her to release the hold on her upper arms, now swinging them as her stride grew longer, faster and with purpose. (V) Come now gumdrop you know as well as I do that this goody two-shoes act has only gotten you killed a dozen times over and steady migraine. If I were in charge we would have been at Asgore’s doorstep a long time ago. (F) Well then it’s a good thing your not then isn’t it? The human hissed back. (V) Such an idiotic, pathetic little thing you are. Too weak and stupid to comprehend that— Okay now that got the young woman’s attention, this pain in the ass poltergeist never passed up the opportunity to insult her and they never cut themselves off in the middle of one either. Halting her advance Frisk scoped out the immediate area, whatever had the voice on edge she needed to keep an eye out for it. At the moment the girl found herself in a deserted hallway, seeing nothing other than the same deep blue stone that made up this portion of the Underground. (F) Okay either the threat is invisible or this is your new way of fucking with me, she told them as she continued to search. (V) Get out of here. NOW. The demand was loud, reverberating in her mind and disorienting her to the point where she almost lost her footing. Shouting in pain she clutched at her head, screwing her eyes shut before taking a few deep breaths to help ride out the intense throbbing between her eyes. “I don’t understand what are you so…” Frisk trailed off. With her eyelids open just a crack she could see something shimmering on the on wall to her left. “What is—” (V) STAY AWAY FROM THAT! They screamed at her. “FUCKING HELL! Again!” The sheer force enough this time that she indeed fell to her knees in front of the shimmer. “Quit doing that!” Blood racing through her veins she waited until her pulse was calm before she rose to her feet. Blinking she looked for the shimmer, but was surprised to see that it had vanished. “What? But it was just here” gasped Frisk. (V) Well it’s not here any more. Let’s go. (F) I don’t think so. Narrowing her gaze in defiance the young woman scanned the wall for the telltale glimmer from before. (V) No I forbid it! The voice practically growled with anger. (F) Yeah well you can take your forbid and shove it up your—there! Quickly Frisk rushed forward to where she saw the shift in the light, keeping both eyes squinted to insure that the thing she now recognized as a grey door remain in her sights. (V) YOU IDIOT I SWEAR IF YOU OPEN THAT DOOR I’LL TEAR APART YOUR MIND UNTIL YOU DON’T HAVE EVEN A SHRED OF SANITY LEFT! This was practically a banshee’s screech within the confines of Frisk’s mind, one that should have left her a crumpled mess on the dirt floor had her determination to see what was in this new room not been so high. Whatever was in there scared no, terrified the voice and that meant one of two things. It was either an object, maybe an ally that could possibly help her get rid of them or it was a horrible monstrosity that would kill her and be able to make the death a permanent one. There was no way of knowing what the outcome would be, but anything was better then going on as she was. So with as much determination as she could the human grabbed the knob and twisted it open before propelling herself forward. She stumbled, nearly falling to the ground again but was able to catch herself at the last second. She prepared for the onslaught of the voice’s tirade but in the back of her head she could only hear a faint buzzing each time they tried to speak. (F) Okay not sure what this place is, but I like it already, she mused taking in the light grey walls of the short hall she was in that lead to an equally small grey room. Then she spotted something strange, at the center of the grey room was a large mound of what could only be described as ink. And it was moving. (F) Who or what is that? The buzzing grew louder but she ignored it in favor of slowly making her way to the black mass, she stopped two feet away from it in case it decided to get violent and in a gentle voice she called to it. “Hey, excuse me who are you?” The black mass seemed to jump, not expecting someone to speak to it. As swiftly as its liquid form could manage it turned to face the human, revealing a white skull-like face that was cracked in two places. The first extended from its left eye to the corner of its open mouth, while the other stretch upwards from its half closed right eye to the back of its head. When it saw her Frisk could have sworn it let out a strangled gasp as it stared at her in shocked. Then the strangest of sounds like the kind a computer would make came tumbling out of its mouth, while two boney hands moved in tune with the sounds. “I’m sorry I don’t understand,” she told him sadly. Frantically they moved their hands faster, the noises they were making almost desperate as they tried to get her to understand. “I’m sorry, I really am but I can’t understand what you’re saying.” It was heartbreaking to see their face fall at her confession; they looked so hopeless and miserable. They stopped making the noises yet their hands continued to move, though now at a slower, more easy to follow pace. “Weird it’s almost like you’re… speaking in hands,” her realization ending in a whisper as she stared at the mysterious monster’s perpetually moving fingers. Let’s see if I still remember how to do this. Kneeling down before them Frisk slowly began to sign out letters. (F) {Hello my name is Frisk. Who are you?} When the monster caught sight of her message they froze, even their busy hands stilling at their surprise. After what felt like an eternity they responded in a similar fashion. (G) {Hello Frisk my name is Wing Dings Gaster.} The buzzing was getting worse now but that didn’t matter, they could communicate, she could talk to Gaster! Now she just had to find out what he was doing here. Giving him a warm smile she continued with her questions. (F) {Can you tell me what this place is? I’ve never seen it before.} (G) {It is part of a place known only as the void. A sort of parallel dimension that shadows this world.} (F) Well damn this is some real life science fiction now. The shock must have shown on her as Gaster’s cracked mouth rose into an amused smile. (F) {How did you get here?} And just like that the smile slipped away to be replaced by a troubled frown. (G) {A lab experiment gone wrong, it brought me here with no way to escape.} (F) {What about the door? Can’t you just go through?} (G) {Even if I did I no longer fully exist in their world. No one can see or hear me. Except you.} (F) {Is there anything I—} Frisk didn’t get to finish that question as the horrible buzzing struck her again, only this time she could hear the voice. (V) I WARNED YOU. The human screamed in pain, grabbing her head as wave after wave of agony came crashing down upon her. Somewhere among the torrent of suffering she registered the feeling of hands carefully clasping her shoulders. Forcing her hazel orbs to open she looked into the dark sockets of Gaster, his white pupils flying over her features as he tried to find what was causing her such distress. In numb awe she watched as he called her soul forward, the typically bright red heart now dim as another heart, this one tattered and as black as tar attempted to snuff out her lights. At the sight Gaster seemed to go through a thousand different emotions at once until his features settled into a look she knew all too well. The look of determination. Nodding to himself the strange goopy skeleton man summoned his own soul, the brilliance of the inverted heart shining proudly in its dull surroundings. Then without warning he sent it forward, crashing into Frisk like two colliding atoms and the room erupted into a blinding white light.

This literally took me all half of yesterday and all of today to finish. Also despite being a frans shipper and the nature of this situation I’m gunna put who Frisk actually ends up with up to you guys. I kinda wanna see if you guys will pick Gatser or not and I can maybe treat this like a reverse effect when people write soriel but still have Frisk wanting to be with him. I love Sans but some times that mother fucker needs a taste of his own medicine >:D Let me know what you guys think.

[gins-potter]

Confessions of a lovesick teenager

Also here on Ao3

Something was troubling James Potter to say the least.  Something had been gnawing at him all holidays and so he had made good use of the emptiness of Gryffindor tower to ponder on it.  Christmas had come and gone, the presents had all been opened, the wpaper cleared away and there were only a few days left until the business of Hogwarts returned with the wash of returning students, Quidditch and classes.  James Fleamont Potter was determined to work out what bothering his best friend, one Sirius Orion Black before he lost the chance.

All holidays Sirius had been withdrawn and quiet.  Usually they would capitalise on the distracted teachers and wreak havoc on those left in the castle, or they would fill the long days planning elaborate pranks for when the term resumed but Sirius had been unusually morose, choosing to spend his days wandering the grounds or even worse shut up alone in the dorm.  

Even as James thought about it, he concluded that Sirius had been acting differently all year, ever since they had come back from the summer holidays.  It was just little things that the raven haired boy had noticed, less hexing of people, pranks that weren’t any less fun but a marginally safer.  He was growing up, James realised with an odd jolt and for a brief moment worried that he might be left behind.  He quickly dismissed that thought pretty quickly, they were brothers for christ sake and if a little growing up was what he needed to do to keep up, then so be it.  It wasn’t just that either though, James realised.  Sirius had been on a suspicious lack of dates this year so far and for the notorious player, going a week without a date was unheard of let alone a full term.

And then the Christmas holidays had hit, and only the three of them were left in the dormitory.  Peter had gone home for the holidays, along with most of Gryffindor leaving Sirius and James, the Potter’s being on a holiday abroad, Remus who was going home for Easter and Lily who was on the outs with her sister again all remaining in the tower.  Sirius had retreated within himself from almost the minute term had ended, spending increasing amounts of time on his own rather than with his friends.  James had let it happen, chosen to give his friend space to work through whatever problems had been plaguing him but enough was enough.  It was time to go find out what was wrong.

With his new resolution in mind, he jumped to his feet and left the deserted dormitory, bounding down the stone stairs in search of his mate.  He took the final step into the common room and his eyes immediately fell on the figure curled up in front of the fire, the wild, unrestrained hair marking him as James’ best friend.  He was so absorbed by the flickering flames that he didn’t notice James until he had sunk to the floor beside him.

Lily Evans was staring at Remus Lupin.  In fact she was staring at him so intensely that it was surprising that Remus remained oblivious.  The redheaded girl was determined to figure out what was wrong with her friend, who been acting oddly for weeks now.  The werewolf in question was lost in thought, staring into space, his quill poised over the parchment, dripping splotches of ink onto the pristine paper as it had been for the past five minutes.  This had been happening on and off the entire day.  The two Gryffindor’s had gotten the idea to get together and finish off any left over homework before the term resumed.

Not much had gotten done however, Remus having been distracted all day, alternating between making slow progress on his numerous essays and daydreaming.  Something was obviously troubling him and Lily, with her iron will, was committed to finding out what and resolving it.  If only so they both didn’t get detention for the uncompleted homework.

“Remus?” she called softly, aware of the spindly figure of Madam Pince prowling around, ready to defend her precious books.  Lily received no response from the boy.

“Remus,” she called a little louder casting an anxious glance over her shoulder.

When remained motionless with his gaze focussed on the grain of the desk, she tried one more time, leaning over the desk to seize his wrist.

“Remus!” she hissed.  The sudden pressure on his skin jerked the werewolf from his trance and looked up at his friend worriedly.

“What’s wrong?”

She gaped at him astonishedly for a moment before finding her her voice again.  “What’s wrong with me?  You were the one daydreaming.  Again.”

A sheepish smile graced his face.  “Was I?”

“Yes.  What has been going through your head lately?”

The smile on Remus’ face grew troubled and his gaze drifted away from Lily and towards the abundance of books heaped on the shelves.

“Come one, mate.  I know something’s wrong.”  James pleaded with an unresponsive Sirius, dealing with his profile rather than his face which was turned determinedly towards the fire.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sirius finally replied and it was the first thing he’d said since James sat down so he’s calling it a step in the right direction.

“Oh come on,” James snorted.  “Padfoot, this is me remember.”

“I’m serious Prongs,” Sirius said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.  “Nothing’s wrong.  I’ve just been...thinking a lot over the holidays.”

“Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.”  When the joke did nothing to relieve the deep frown on Sirius’ face, James leaned in further to study his friend.  “Mate, maybe you just need to get laid or something.  You know really get out of your head.  It has been a long time-”

“No!” Sirius cut him off so decisively and whirled to face him so suddenly that his friend jolted slightly.

Then slowly a grin emerged on James' face.  Sirius knowing what the look meant hurriedly turned back to the fire.

“You like someone don’t you.”

Sirius’ mouth dropped open for a second before he answered blandly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

James wasn’t listening.  “You like someone,” he said in a stunned voice, more to himself than his friend.  He shook his head in amazement.  “Never thought I would see the day.”

“Remus, you have to tell me.”  Lily inwardly winced at the whine in her voice, but didn’t retract her comment.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Remus replied briskly, tearing through pages in his textbook.

“Oh, don’t give me that.  You’ve been acting weird for weeks now.”

“Have not,” Remus countered, all too aware that he sounded like a child.

“Oh yeah?” Lily taunted.  “What did we learn in History of Magic, last day of term?” she challenged with a raise of her perfectly plucked eyebrows.

Remus sat there stumped, trying to cast his mind back to the lesson.  And he could remember it well, the only problem being that he hadn’t been paying attention to the lecture but rather the back of a certain someone’s head.

Lily nodded in satisfaction at the lost expression on her friends face.  “We were learning about the Goblin Rebellion of 1612, not that you would know since you spent the lesson off with the fairies.”

Remus smiled fondly at the muggle expression knowing that if Sirius or James were with them they’d be on their feet and looking for the winged pests in a heartbeat.

“So what’s been going on with you?  Daydreaming about your secret crush?” she joked with a soft chuckle, glancing down at the unfinished essay.  Remus’ silence spoke volumes to Lily and her head snapped up to take in the expression that solidified what she already suspected.  “Oh my god, Remus Lupin actually likes someone.”  She have a stunned sort of giggle at the end of her announcement.

“I, I…” Remus trailed off uncertainly.

Lily squealed with excitement, ignoring the sharp shush it prompted from the nearby patrolling librarian and immediately tried to guess who it was.  “Oh my god, is it Mary Macdonald?  I saw you two hanging out the other day.  Or maybe Dorcas Meadowes, she’s only a year older,” Lily mused.

Remus shoved his books into a haphazard pile, rolled up his essay mindless of the still drying ink and gathered it all in his arms, swinging his bag over his shoulder as an afterthought, not taking the usual care with his things.

“Come on Remus.  Stay, talk to me about this,” Lily begged, a pout fixed on her lips.  “Just tell me who she is.”

“I can’t,” Remus hissed and stumbled to his feet.  “Because… because it’s not a she.”

Lily’s mouth dropped open and the werewolf used her momentary shock to his advantage and hurried for the door of the library.  Unfortunately, for him at least, he and Lily had chosen a table right at the back and he had to wade through countless other tables and packed shelves to get to the entrance.  Even more unfortunately, Lily got over her shock pretty quickly and sprang into action, gripping his wrist and hauling him back towards the table.

“Lily,” he groaned but allowed himself to be pulled back to the table.  “I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“But how could you not tell me before this.  We’ve been friends since second year.”

“This isn’t something that you just decide one day,” Remus reminded her with a wry smile.  “Besides I didn’t even really know for sure until these holidays.  And then there was no good time to tell you.”

“I know, I know but…” Lily trailed off with a shake of her head.

“You don’t mind do you?” Remus asked, suddenly worried.

“God Remus.”  Lily grabbed his hand and squeezed it reassuringly.  “Of course I don’t mind.  I just don’t know how I missed it.  I usually have awesome gayday,” Lily said with a frown.

Remus groaned and dropped his head into a free hand.

“How are ok with this?”  Sirius was staring at James as though he had just told him that he was secretly having an affair with a goat.  James leant back on his hands, stretching out his stiff body and surveying his friend calmly.

“So you have feelings for a guy.  I don’t get what the problem is.  You’ve done it before?”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Sirius said, holding his hands up in a surrender motion.  “I’ve fooled around with guys before, but hasn’t everyone.”  Judging by James’ expression, not everyone experiments with their sexuality.  “Whatever.  But this time I’m talking full on feelings, like I want a relationship.”

“And I reiterate, what’s the big deal?”

Sirius goggled at him, eyes round and mouth open wide enough that James could see his tonsils.  “Because it makes me a poof,” he finally managed to get out, voice strangled.  “We’re talking about me being a shirtlifter.  Me liking it up the ass.  Me-”

“I really didn’t need to know that,” James said with a wrinkled nose.  “But who cares?  I mean if it makes you happy.”  James punctuated his statement with an unconcerned shrug.  “Besides, I already knew.”

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me!”

“I was waiting to see how long it took you to figure it out.”

Sirius coughed a subdued “arsehole” into the fire but was unable to contain his grin.

“So who is the lucky guy.”

“Ha, forget it.”

“You have to tell me,” Lily insisted.  She was pleading with an unresponsive Remus who was back to focussing on his charms essay.  She knew she must have part of his attention however because he’d been reading the same page for five minutes and hadn’t written a single word.

“I do not,” Remus replied shortly.

“Oh, come on,” Lily said.  “Ok, what if I guess.  Will you tell me then?”

Remus thought about it for a long moment and finally nodded reluctantly, swayed by the doe eyes Lily was sending his way.

Ok, you’ve got this, Lily coached herself internally.  You can figure this out.  You’ve only been friends with him for the past four years.

“Well it’s not James, you’re not that stupid.  It’s not Peter- sweet mother of God tell me it’s not Peter.”

Remus rolled his eyes.  “As much as I love the boy, of course it’s not Peter.”

Lily shrugged.  “The heart wants what it wants.”

Remus scoffed and flipped the page of his textbook.

“Fabien or Gideon?” she tried but received a firm head shake in response.  “Frank?”  A hum to the negative.  “Come on give me a hint?” she pleaded, sticking her lower lip out in a pout she knew Remus couldn’t resist and sure enough he acquiesced with a sigh.

“I spend a lot of time with him.  He’s really funny and deceptively smart.  He doesn’t have the best home life but he’s the most loyal person I know, almost like a dog.”  Lily lifted an eyebrow at the amusement colouring the words but Remus quickly moved on.  “And that’s all I’m telling you.”

“But that’s practically nothing,” Lily complained burying her head in her folded arms.  What was the point of getting nearly a perfect score on her O.W.L’s if she couldn’t work out who her best friend had the hots for?

Slowly she mulled over the tidbits of information he had allowed.  Remus spends time with him; well that have her practically nothing.  Remus wasn’t the obviously popular type like James or Sirius but everyone liked him and his two best friends were the most popular guys in school so he was surrounded by people more often than not.  Funny wasn’t much of an identifier either.  Lily could name over a dozen ‘funny’ guys and that was in their grade alone; Remus hadn’t specified that the guy he liked was even in 6th year.  Besides her definition of funny was very different to his, if his choice of friends was anything to go by.  Deceptively smart was a little better but still deceptively meant misleading so it wasn’t like she’d know either way.  Lily slowly turned the next bit of information over in her mind, not the best home life… but fiercely loyal.  Her entire body froze as a thought struck her.

Remus hadn’t said he just spent time with the guy but that he spent a lot of time with him.  There was only three people that Remus spent a lot of time with besides her and she’d already ruled out two of them.  The third was one she knew Remus thought was funny and who got perfect marks despite his devil-may-care attitude, who’s ‘not so good home life’ had lead him to be disowned this very year but who was still fiercely loyal to and protective of his friends.

Lily slowly pulled herself upright, eyes staring across the abandoned library.  Remus chuckled, eyes never leaving his essay, amused and reassured that Lily had given up trying to guess.

“Worked it out yet?” he teased.

The sound of his voice jolted her out of her reverie and she whipped a hand out to clench around his wrist her intensity wiping the smile from Remus’ face.

“I know who it is.”

“And he’s so smart,” Sirius moaned, drawing out the ‘o’ until the word was five times its original length.  “I mean he always complains about how I don’t have to study to get good marks but he’s so much smarter than I am.  Than I’ll ever be.”

“Uh huh,” James murmured back.

As far as Sirius’ dramatic episodes go this is pretty good, sprawled on the floor with his head pillowed on James’ knee as it is.

Sirius’ refusal to say a name hadn’t stopped him from waxing lyrical about this mystery man and about how Sirius didn’t deserve him for the better part of an hour.  James was slowly growing restless with the meltdown but still interested enough to latch onto every bit of information as it was revealed.

“And he’s so pretty, gorgeous really, like the sunset,” he whine and James nearly drew the line there, wanting to slap his friend out of the trance he was in.  But this was his best friend, the same who had listened to him rant about one Lily Evans and the glorious colour of her eyes and silky texture of her hair so James shut up, renewed his focus on the infuriatingly vague details Sirius was tossing his way and wondered if it was worth summoning the bottle of firewhiskey stashed under his bed.

On the floor Sirius was growing more distressed, voice growing harder and all thoughts of firewhiskey vanished from James’ mind.

“I mean he’s so perfect, but he just doesn’t see it,” Sirius growled and raked  a hand through his tangled hair.  “I mean who cares if he’s a fucking werewolf.”

There was a beat of absolute silence, where even the crackling fire seemed to stop moving.  Then Sirius bolted upright, mumbling under his breath while a gleeful expression appeared on James’ face.  Sirius buried his face in his hands, muttering a now muffled litany of “oh shit” into his palms, effectively hiding his face from his elated best friend.  Said best friend who leapt to his feet and danced around the common room while Sirius cursed his very existence.

“Sirius likes Remus.  Padfoot likes Moony,” James sang jubilantly to the empty room.

“Seriously, Remus,” Lily groaned, watching her friend’s sheepish smile with a fond sort of exasperation.  “Sirius.  Out of everyone, you had to like Sirius.  The most juvenile boy in our grade?”

“What about James?” Remus countered with a small smile.  “Besides what was it that you said.”  The werewolf tapped a finger to his lip, pretending to think hard.  “‘The heart wants what it wants?’  Was that not what you were telling me fifteen minutes ago?”

Lily groaned into her hands but had to admit that he had a point.  “I guess I’ll get used to him eventually.  Once you tell him how you feel.”

Remus’ face fell so quickly that Lily had to blink to be sure that she was seeing right.

“No.”

“I don’t see why this is such a problem,” James panted, finished with his circuit around the common room and sprawled back on the floor.  “You tell him how you feel, our dear Moony swoons in your arms and you both live happily ever-”

“Not, not happening.  Not in this lifetime,” Sirius cut in, looking at James like he was crazy.  “I’m never going to tell him.  You’re not going to tell him.  He’s never going to know about this, I’ll be doomed to eternal bachelorhood, watching as he marries some bird and pops out a couple of Remus Juniors,” he finished, staring moodily into the fire over his bent knees.

It this had been any other time James might have commented on Sirius; ridiculous dramatics.  But he was too busy taking his turn to look at Sirius like he was the crazy one.  “What are you on about, mate?  Why wouldn’t you tell Moony how you feel?  It’ll be fine.  Why would he have a problem with-”

Remus scribbled furiously at his parchment, probably doing more wreckage than actual work but unable to care while Lily gaped at him like he’d taken a turn off the deep end.

“Remus,” she said carefully.  “You’ve got to tell him.”

“And lose the best friend I’ve ever had?  Not likely.”

“You can’t honestly think he’d have a problem-”

“No he won’t have a problem with me liking boys.  But you can’t honestly think he’d feel the same way and then things would just be awkward and I can’t lose him.  I’d rather have him like this than not at all.”

“But how can you be so sure-”

“Because Moony likes girls,” Sirius exploded, his voice reverberating around the empty common room.

“Because Padfoot likes girls,” Remus moaned, his voice a harsh whisper destined only for Lily’s ears.

[josiah-olson]

Chapter 3: The Queen

The legends are real, thought Fazzi, staring up at the Bizu ship in the sky. He lay with his head rested on Amma’s lap, the two of them packed in among the crates and baskets of the cart along with Jaceira. Amma’s nails were sharp on his shoulder as they hit a bump in the road, and Fazzi’s grip tightened instinctively around Lil Faz to ease the pain. It felt like her nails might have brought blood, but he pulled closer to her all the same. She needed him, he knew, and the least he could do for her was to be close to her.

She needed sleep too, it was plain to see in her droopy red eyes. It must be the nightmares again, he thought. He had woken many times since the summons arrived to find Amma tied up in her tangled sheets, or standing teary-eyed beside the fire, while her teapot screamed unnoticed. Once even, he had woken to her hands on him. Her fingers were claws that night, and they clutched him so tight that Fazzi had to pinch her awake and shout for her to finally let him go.

It’s getting worse, Fazzi knew, but he also knew that she never tried to hurt him, and that she loved him more than anything in the world. He knew that she would give everything away for him—that she already had… just like Iogwan, who gave all that she had for her children.

Fazzi looked back to the thing nested among the clouds. If the children of Iogwan are real, he thought to himself, then maybe all the other tales are too. He half expected to come face-to-face with the Smiling Thief himself when they arrived in the city, with his cloak woven of chains and roots, a mask on his face that bore an unchanging smile, and an undying hunger for gold. When Fazzi looked back to the road, he imagined the Living Night charging in on a chariot pulled by desert goats, with Leveler—the great golden sword of heroes held in his hand.

But Mischonji, the storyteller in Mull, didn’t seem to know any of these stories, and so Fazzi carried them only as distant and fading memories, always spoken in Father’s gravelly deep voice, and lit by the light of Amma’s cookfire as heroes and monsters rose up out of the gurgling river beside their old home in the city.

Of the stories Mishonji would tell, Fazzi’s favorite was that of Maru the Dragon Stealer. One of the greatest of all of the Bizu explorers, Maru had patiently learned the songs the dragons used to sing. Then she waited outside of the nest for the children to be alone, and lured them to her with their mother’s own song, hoping to ride them. But the mother dragoness returned sooner than Maru had thought, and caught her in the act of tying a harness to one of them. But the mother dragoness did not end Maru in a bolt of fiery breath—instead she welcomed her, and Maru was seen from then on as one of them, for she sang the songs of dragons.

If the Bizu have returned… maybe the dragons have too.

The thought was enough to make Fazzi bounce where he sat. He would love nothing more than to see a real dragon! To ride one as Maru had… he couldn’t even imagine.

He picked up Lil Faz and tossed her in the air playfully, and her skin glowed and faded with all the colors of the rainbow. He had seen her color trick a thousand times, but it never grew old, and always filled him with joy.

Although she was called a water dragon by name, she didn’t breathe fire or fly… mostly she just sat and ate and slept. Lazy dragon would have been a better name. Fazzi loved her though; when the world became chaotic, he could feel the slow, quiet thumping of Lil Faz’s heart, and when he was filled with excitement as he was now, she would turn all the colors of the rainbow in a beautiful trick of hers that never seemed to grow old. But even in all of her changing, Lil Faz was always the same, and Fazzi loved her for that.

Jaceira sat nearby, scrunched between two crooked stacks of crates that swayed with every bump of the rickety road—it was only a matter of which stack would fall first. She had her face buried in that small, old book Amma always carried with her, although Fazzi guessed it would take a miracle to read a single word with all the shaking and swaying of the cart. Miracle or no, the pages kept turning, and Jaceira kept her head in her book.

At one point in their journey, Fazzi caught sight of a mountain dehrn, dashing up the cliffside behind them with its forked horns aimed proudly into the sky as if even the pull of the earth couldn’t hold down a creature so free. Fazzi had never seen a dehrn before, and he leapt up with such excitement that Amma woke up for half a moment, Lil Faz began to transform her colors, and Jaceira’s father even stopped the cart to see what had stirred Fazzi so—but Jaceira… she only continued to read.

The cart rattled and lurched along the winding gravel road. Each turn was sharper than the last, and with each twist, Fazzi felt it must surely be the one that would send them all plummeting to their deaths upon the stones below.

But Sunsound’s hooves were steady, and Byros, Jaceira’s father, was a cautious man in all ways but for his loud, and ever reckless words. Byros gripped the reins in an oaken fist, and stayed so close to the mountain cliff that Fazzi could reach out and touch it as they went. Even so, Fazzi grew sick in the stomach at all the swaying, and weak in the head whenever he looked down.

It was only then, when Fazzi was leaning over the cart’s edge, ready for his stomach to turn itself out, that he felt Jaceira’s presence beside him.

She sat him back down, and sat across from him, taking his hands in her own.

“When all the world is moving,” she whispered, “we have to keep our eyes on the things that move with us.”

Jaceira was moving with him. She swayed gently to the same bumps on the road, and caught her breath with a gasp and a laugh as they twisted down the same sharp turns, and so Fazzi kept his eyes on her.

And whether it was a cure or a distraction, Fazzi didn’t know, but it did seem to help.

She was soft and gentle, and as quiet as a distant song. The golden freckles on her cheeks dazzled in the morning sun, and the hint of a smile was pressed ever onto her lips. And in front of her face, hovering in the stillness of the cold, humid air, waited a cloud of energy and life all the colors of Summer—a breath that Jaceira didn’t dare to breathe most of the time. Sometimes, when there were no adults around, she breathed it in just enough to taste it… and in those times Fazzi watched her spirit swell and come alive like a flower in the sun. Now, the breath hovered unbreathed before her, hiding her true face from Fazzi.

But even through the cloud he saw her, and their secret was passed once more between them with that simple look. It didn’t take more than that, for that’s all that their secret was… just a simple look that said; I see you.

He saw her, and she saw him—or at least, she had seen him.

He remembered it as if it was always and forever happening, unfolding before his eyes.

It was a meeting like the ones in the stories. The sort you can’t ever forget, yet can never be certain was not a dream. Amma was upset that day… one of her students, Jaceira’s older sister, had run off to the city to join the dance of love, and Amma was not happy. Her mindsong was a raging storm, and her spirit was twisted and hurt. Fazzi had tried to calm her, to soothe the storm, and untie her spirit with a gentle touch. But whenever he reached for her, she lashed out with an iron blade in her mindsong, and hurled the most bitter feelings into his mind. And even his embrace she pushed away with cold shoulders. So Fazzi fled to the woods, shaking and crying, and clutching Lil Faz tight to his chest as she broke the waves of his sorrow and made them fall easier upon the shores of his heart.

He had hoped to watch the fairies there, for they always danced that time of year, but they must have sensed his sorrowful song and hidden from it, for there was not a single one to be found that day. And so, even despite the comfort of Lil Faz, Fazzi’s mind swirled and darkened, boiling like a sea set to devour a ship.

But something curious caught his eye…

Jaceira stood there among the trees, balancing a staff lengthwise upon her fingertip. Her eyes were shut, and her lips moved to a silent prayer. And all around her was stillness like Fazzi had never seen in the woods, like even the air itself held its breath to see what she would do. With the swiftest of movements, she swung the staff out in front of her, and charged forward through the trees. Her eyes did not open, and her face showed not even the slightest sign of fear, even as the sharp branches clawed at her shins and scratched her cheeks, and stones and fallen branches rose up to trip her.

Suddenly, she stuck the staff down into the ground, throwing herself into the air.

The staff stood vertically for a moment, and Jaceira atop it, and she looked as a bird must look when it finds for the first time the strength that was always within its wings.

But there was no balance, and she wavered and then fell with a sickening crunch. When Fazzi approached her, and gently helped her to her feet again, there were tears in her eyes and a pain yet deeper than his own. But he saw that it was not just the pain of the arm she had broken, but something worse. She had truly believed that Zaadu would hold her up…

And when she looked at him, Fazzi felt naked, and wanted to look away. But something made him stay, to hold her gaze. And so she saw him, as he emerged once again from the swirling sea of his rage. She saw the weak little Fazzi who had run from his mother when she needed him most, and had come looking for fairies to cheer him up, like some kind of fool. But, even as she saw him as the foolish little boy that he was, she pulled him close and kissed his cheek, and they walked back to the village in silence. There was something she was going to say too… but she caught it on the edge of her lip, and swallowed it down.

By the time they arrived, there was a fog already forming around Jaceira, and her words were still unspoken and her eyes dimmed and distant. But the memory of that look they shared was still clear in Fazzi’s mind, and he loved her in that memory, even when the Jaceira he saw now was always hidden behind a cloud.

Jaceira held his gaze the longest of anyone, but still, eventually, she was the one to look away. Now, in the bed of the cart, she breathed out the softest of laughs. She was going to breathe in the cloud, and become herself, Fazzi knew it. He moved closer, he wanted to see her again.

But she stopped him with a hand on his cheek, and somehow she didn’t breathe in… only out again. “Oh, Fazzi,” she sighed, as her hand trickled down his cheek.

She went back to her reading, and after a time, Fazzi returned to his daydreaming, but he wished he could take her with him, to share his world with her. He wished he could have shown her fairies that day in the woods, or tell her what he had seen in her. But she was busy. Her world was Zaadu as Fazzi’s was his imagination. And her world was built on books and prayers and quiet.

So Fazzi let her be.

The cart came to a stop at the edge of the forest, and Amma sat up with a start, straightening her hair and forcing a smile onto her face. Her spirit was quivering in fear.

“Hello,” she said into the empty air.

When she saw that they had only stopped for Jaceira’s mother to chat with a few farmers, she settled back down, and was quickly pulled back into the world of sleep.

There was a boy among the farmers who ran up alongside the cart, and began to chat with Jaceira, holding a bowl of fruit on his head.

“The world’s changin,’ huh?” said the boy, with a nod towards the shape in the sky. He was only Fazzi’s age, but those were the words of someone much older, probably something he had heard some adults saying. The boy held the bowl of fruit out for Jaceira, eyeing her freckles as if they were real gold. Jaceira looked at each of the colorful fruits before picking a few. When she tossed one to Fazzi, her cheeks were flushed, and her hands had a slight tremble to them that Fazzi rarely saw.

Fazzi accepted the fruit, but eyed the boy suspiciously. He didn’t like the way Jaceira was looking at him… like her and this boy had a special secret between them like the one Fazzi and her shared. Fazzi tore the skin from his fruit and gave it to Lil Faz, and as she ate, the colors of the fruits appeared briefly on her own skin. Fazzi glanced to Amma quickly, but she was sleeping. And so he watched joyfully as Lil Faz’s skin flowed through all the colors of the rainbow before finding its way back to green.

Fazzi kept the boy in the corner of his eye as he ate. The boy's spirit was strong—it stood a foot taller than him, with strong arms crossed over a thick chest. But the boy himself was mostly bone, and had crooked shoulders and a slouched back. But despite the boy’s uncomeliness, Jaceira and him seemed only to have eyes for one another. Fazzi quickly tired of their chatting… mimicking more adult words about the weather and the geds and the news of the city. He turned his attention to the countryside.

In every direction were endless fields of grain. A lazy stream wandered not far from the road, and a small collection of mud hovels sprouted up beside the stream… Fazzi knew this place! I came here with Father once.

It had been so long ago, but the memory of their visit returned to him with the smell of the hay and manure that drifted in from the fields.

He rode on Father’s shoulders, pulling at his sandy locks like they were reins. There were many people around, jostling at one another to get a better view of the miracle they had come to see, but Fazzi had a perfect view from Father’s shoulders.

The girl looked like the child angels in the paintings of the temples; dark violet skin and short black hair cut like a boy’s, with fat round cheeks and a plump nub of a nose stuck in the center of her head. But it was her spirit that Fazzi remembered best—it looked just like her, but with a power to it that was more than human—like the spirit of a goddess! The girl’s spirit stood even taller than Fazzi on Father’s shoulders, although the girl herself must have been shorter even than Fazzi. When she reached out into the well with her mind, her tongue stuck out sideways, and her eyes scrunched tight… but her spirit stood tall and graceful, playing a reed flute as her hair swirled and swayed to the melody. The water responded to her call, along with a chorus of awe from the watchers. Like a serpent to a snake-charmer’s song, the water crept up from the well, climbing the stone wall, and pouring itself into the pail at her feet.

As the people left, the talk was all about the wonderful things she would grow up to do, and the immense power she possessed. To move water with one’s mindsong... none had ever heard of such a thing—even in legends!

Father had sat Fazzi down on a stone afterwards, and stuck a finger onto his chest. “You saw that girl, Fazzi,” he said. “You’re going to be a wonder like she is, I know it. You are lucky or blessed or special maybe… or maybe you’re normal, and I was just all the opposite… but either way, you are you, and that person has no name and no limits!” Father was talking a mile a minute, like the world was about to end. “Don’t ever forget this day, okay? Don’t ever forget it!”

Fazzi had to say ‘okay’ a dozen times before Father finally stopped repeating those words, and by then both of them had tears streaked down their faces and blurry eyes, and then they were laughing through the tears and hugging like they would never see each other again, and then dancing because if they were never to see each other again, a dance is the only good way to say goodbye.

His words had meant so much then… but Father turned out to be a bad man. He had hurt Fazzi, and Fazzi would never forget that, or ever forgive him. Now it wasn’t strength he felt at the thought of Father’s rough hands or the curly locks of his sandy hair—now it was a fire in his forehead and a swirling sickness in his stomach.

Fazzi pulled at Jaceira’s arm. “There was a—a girl here,” he whispered. “Ask him… she could move water with her mind…”

Jaceira asked the boy if he knew anything about a girl with such abilities.

“You speak for him?” asked the boy, looking at Fazzi with a chuckle.

But Jaceira only repeated her question.

The boy shrugged, puffed his chest out, and pointed behind him to the field. “Rinn’s her name,” he said proudly. “She fills our water pails. You could watch her do it for two penny-pieces.”

Fazzi’s heart sank. What had he expected…? For her to have become some sort of hero out of legends? Or a powerful being that came and went with the tides, bringing rain to her friends and terrible storms upon her enemies? Or maybe to become a princess, surrounded by riches and knights, with the rarest of foods set before her and the secrets of every corner of the earth whispered into her ear? But it seemed she only used her power to earn a handful of pennies from curious travelers. The girl who everyone agreed was going to become so powerful…

Fazzi didn’t want to see her, it would only make him sad.

The cart began to move again, and Jaceira waved goodbye to the boy. All the muscles in his chest and arms were clenched as he waved back, and his voice pushed deep when he called out a farewell. Jaceira laughed, and though she returned to her book, Fazzi saw that for a long time afterwards, her mind was not with the book, but with that boy.

The trail led them into the woods. Tall trees rose up so thick around them that the sun was only a glimmer of yellow spots in a sea of deep green. Imitation men leapt about in the branches, dropping seeds and bits of fruit as they squabbled amongst themselves. Birds with deep calls or piercing shrieks filled the woods with their song, and the ferns glowed bright from the trails of color left by the fairies that weaved through the forest floor. It was Summer, the season of their dancing, and there were so many colors swirling about that Fazzi nearly leapt from the cart and joined them.

But the fairies froze when the cart drew near, and looked at the travellers. At the sight of Amma’s spirit, many of them became frightened, and scurried off into the safety of the forest. Of the ones which remained, they were more cautious in their dancing, and kept an eye on the clawed thing behind Amma.

Her spirit was not a welcoming one, although Fazzi had grown used to seeing it always lurking behind her. It’s eyes were always darting about like a frightened animal, and her hands had grown large, with sharp nails. Her spirit’s legs, too, were hurt—they had become so skinny she could barely stand. Amma was carrying a heavy burden, Fazzi knew, and her spirit was growing weaker each day  Most people didn’t see it, for she kept it well hidden, but beneath her smile and carefully placed words, she was cracking from something—a burden she carried all alone. Even Fazzi didn’t know what it was, only that it was slowly crushing her spirit.

One of the fairies, a yellow sprite with a beard which flowed well past its toes, came close to Amma, and swirled around her, puffing out its cheeks and making silly faces. Even as Amma slept, her spirit clawed at the sprite angrily. But the sprite was quicker, and easily dodged her blow. It danced about Amma, tickling her ears and neck with its beard while her spirit shifted around uncomfortably.

Fazzi danced his fingers along the ridge of the cart, mimicking the graceful movements of the sprite. The happy little people of the forest laughed at the sight, and more flew up to join in the dance. They made a game of it, as they made a game of everything. In an ever-quickening circle, they danced around and around Amma, and each time, they drew in closer and closer to her. Her spirit twisted around, infuriated, as the fairies left streaks of their colors all over her spirit. Where the color fell, Fazzi could see the gaunt flesh of her spirit begin to grow again.

If she only danced with them for a moment, thought Fazzi.

He took Amma’s hand in his own, and shook her. “Amma, wake up!”

Amma’s spirit writhed, and her nails bit into the skin of Fazzi’s hands.  “Fazzi… I need my sleep…”

Fazzi shook her whole arm. The fairies were still dancing around her, she would join them eventually. She must feel them, thought Fazzi. She must! “Amma, please!”

“You see something, Fazzi?” bellowed Byros, turning to look back with a hearty laugh.

Jaceira’s father was a tree of a man—thick all around, with feet and hands that looked as if they could dig firm into the ground so that not even a storm could tear him away. Byros had no mindsong to speak of, and his spirit was so faint that not even Fazzi could see it.

“Fairies,” Fazzi said. But he didn’t have time for Byros. Amma needed to dance with the fairies. Maybe they can heal her.

“Fairies, huh?” Byros was always asking him about what he saw, but no matter how many times Fazzi had carefully explained the colorful fairies and the ways they danced and played around, Byros didn’t believe a word of it, and he never saw them. It was tiring, and most of the time, Fazzi simply didn’t say anything anymore.

“Where are they this time?” Byros asked, looking past the group of fairies that encircled Fazzi and Amma. His eyes were blind to them. “Oh,” he said then, when he had turned to look into a patch of ferns beside the cart—a place where there wasn’t a single fairy. “I see them now. Very pretty little things! Do they have names?” It was a lie, Fazzi knew, he thought it was some sort of children’s game to play along to.

But even as he spoke, one fairy flew away from the rest and landed on Byros’ nose. Sometimes fairies took the unbelievers as special challenges. It was a hilarious sight—Byros with a glowing red nose so bright his face was hardly visible.

Fazzi giggled and pointed. Byros looked about him, still not seeing. “Is there one near me?”

Fazzi nodded, then it hit him. It was a children’s game…

“Eyes closed,” said Fazzi, snapping his hands shut in front of his own eyes.

Byros laughed. “I’m driving the cart.” But he laid down the reins and continued to play along.

“Remember playing when you were a child,” continued Fazzi.

“I liked running in the fields—” Byros began to say.

“Just remember.”

Byros kept his eyes shut for a moment longer. And then Fazzi saw the muscles of Byros’ eyes relax, and knew that he was ready.

“Eyes open,” said Fazzi.

When Byros opened his eyes, he let out a gasp, and jumped back so hard that Sunsound winnied and pulled the other way to keep the cart on the road. The red fairy flew back, and fluttered above.

He saw it! thought Fazzi excitedly. It is possible!

Byros was laughing, and Fazzi was too. And the fairies were dancing joyously all around them.

Fazzi glanced back up into the sky.

His heart nearly stopped. The Bizu ship was gone.

Just gone. The same as it had appeared, it was simply gone.

Fazzi felt his breath caught in his throat, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

When he looked back down, Byros was steering the cart as if nothing had changed. “What sort of things do fairies eat, Fazzi?” he asked plainly. “I’m getting quite hungry, and would eat just about anything right now… even fairy food!”

But Fazzi didn’t answer. He pulled his legs in close and kept his eyes down. It wasn’t a game.

Amma was asleep still, and her spirit still looked just as gaunt and weary as ever. The fairies had given up their dance, and were fluttering back to the forest homes, waving goodbye to Fazzi. But Fazzi was exhausted, and couldn’t find the energy within him even to smile at them.

“Nothing, Fazzi?” continued Byros. “C’mon, I’m curious!”

Thuheisha, Jaceira’s mother, sat beside Byros, staring intently at a scarf she was knitting. “Take it easy on him, Byros. He’s shy.” She spoke only in a whisper, as if a loud word would tear the yarn.

“So was I until the day I wasn’t,” said Byros. Fazzi could feel his eyes heavy on him. He clutched Lil Faz closer. “And shy or not, Fazzi, a boy should look an elder in the eye, and respond when he’s spoken to.”

Fazzi stayed quiet. He looked to Jaceira for comfort, but she was still reading, as if the words of the book would burn away with the setting sun. He couldn’t see her face at all—not from the book, but the cloud stuck in her face. And he was sure that she couldn't see him, because she wasn’t even looking. She was too busy with Zaadu, or maybe thinking of a boy with big swollen muscles.

“Did you hear me?” asked Byros.

Fazzi’s forehead was burning. He wanted to shout, or to explode. Instead, he looked into Byros’ eyes, and forced all of it down, until he felt like he would cry. “Yes,” he said.

Byros smiled. “There you are, lad! Now, remember that when you’re in the city, and you’ll be loved by all of the old people like myself.” Byros laughed to himself.

Fazzi curled up after that, with Amma’s sharp nails on his shoulder, and Lil Faz tight in his hands.

Jaceira’s parents spoke in whispers for a time. Fazzi caught a few of Byros’ words, for his voice was anything but quiet. “You know how the city folk are to kids like him…” he said at one point, and Fazzi could think of a thousand terrible things that he might have meant, and all of them made him want to turn the cart around. “A nail needs a hammer, a field needs a plow, and a boy needs a father,” Byros said later. “Without one, he’ll never become a man.”

But you’re not my father… thought Fazzi. And anyways, if I stay a boy forever, would that be so bad?

Fazzi looked back up to the empty sky, hoping that somehow he had just missed it the first time… but there was nothing.

Gone, thought Fazzi sadly, and all of the legends with it.

He looked down at Lil Faz, as a wave of orange rolled across her little body.

“No,” said Fazzi, flicking her until she stopped.

All of it… the stories, the fairies, the spirits—all of it had been real that morning. Now… now Fazzi wasn’t sure if any of it was.

-----

When the cart finally rolled to a stop, the sun was gone, the Bizu ship was only a memory, and Fazzi was exhausted. The taste of the dusty road was stuck on his tongue like it would never leave again, and the earth seemed to pull twice as strong here as it had upon the mountain. That morning, the sky had held the promise of a legend come-true, and Amma had held his hand in a joyful dance. The fairies had filled the forest floor with their colors, and the spirits of Amma and Jaceira were only inches from bursting open in bloom. Now Amma was awake and full of smiles, but she was locked up inside, and Jaceira still stood as stoic and serious as ever, with her face hidden in an even thicker cloud. There was no color anymore, but the pale white face of the moon and the blackness of the forest around them, and although Amma held Fazzi’s hand, it was fear—not joy, which bound them together. And the Bizu—and all the legends with them, were gone. Gone… as if they never had been to begin with.

They found themselves in a place like a colorless dream. There was a wooden pagoda in the moonlit clearing, and a feast set upon the table. But the food could have been stones and twigs for all it mattered, Fazzi felt too exhausted even to care. And besides, the strange man who greeted them refused to let them sit and eat until they had visited the queen of the land and asked for her blessing.

The man was Grandfather Lhohlo’s brother, but he looked more alike to a lump of candle wax, with huge cheeks, and a bigger belly, and not a normal thing about him from the plain worn fabric he covered himself with to the tiny feet which somehow supported his weight—even his spirit was strange! Fazzi had never before seen a spirit that did not look in some way like the person it was attached to. This man was the first. His spirit had no arms or legs or even a head— it was a simple yellow bubble which encircled him like a personal sun he wore.

‘Peculiar’ was the word Thuheisha had used to describe him on the road, while Amma called him ‘odd.’ Byros, ever bold in his words, had not hesitated to call him a ‘kooky old man.’ But, no matter what adjective they chose, they had all said he was kind, and to his face, they all simply called him ‘Bugs.’

He greeted them each with a bow and whispered their names as if they had spent all their lives together.

“Fazzi,” he said with a smile, stopping in front of him with his eyes glowing. “You were only a child when I saw you last… now look at you!”

Despite how tired he felt, Fazzi knew he needed to act strong. He looked his uncle in the eye, and held his head high like a man. “Many blessings, Uncle Bugs.”

Byros let out a hearty laugh, and Amma looked away to hide a smile. But Bugs’ face was unchanged. “Fazzi…” he said with a sigh and a curious gleam in his eye. “You’re so… polite.” But it was not the tone of someone impressed… he sounded more sad than anything.

Fazzi nodded a thank you because he didn’t know what else to do.

Bugs was still staring at him when he looked back up. He leaned in closer, until Fazzi could smell him and could count the scraggly hairs atop his balding head. He smelled like he bathed in fruit juice. “The Fazzi I know used to dance and run around without a care in the world, playing pretend that he was a hero from the stories he loved so much. Do you remember?”

Fazzi only remembered the feeling, not the scene. He remembered the joy of running in the forest. The excitement of tumbling and dancing with the fairies as a child.

But none of the stories are real, and nobody else can see the fairies.

Lil Faz was crawling down Fazzi’s arm towards Bugs, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jaceira watching him. He straightened his back and puffed out his chest, and tucked Lil Faz back into his arm.

“No, Uncle Bugs,” he said in his deepest voice.

Bugs clicked his tongue. “Ah, too bad… I hold those memories still close to my heart, Fazzi. You were always a blessed child… You are lucky to have him.” Bugs looked to Amma momentarily with a smile, then back to Fazzi. “Have you come to the city to choose a ged of your own to serve? You’re at an age for it, and I can see a dozen geds which have already chosen you.”

The thought of being chosen by any of the geds, let alone a dozen was incredible to Fazzi. He looked into Bugs’ eyes, and saw that it was no joke. This man I hardly remember believes in me, he thought in awe. Bugs must have seen the excitement in Fazzi’s expression, for he began to list geds.

“I see Tragyawi’s laughter in your spirit, Fazzi, and Druwagi’s luck in your smiling cheeks. You have The Prophet’s love in your heart, and the bright light of Konzu’s song shines so brightly from your mind.”

Fazzi had never really considered following in Amma’s footsteps and serving Zaadu, but maybe there would be a place for him in one of the temples. “There’s a goddess of stories, right?”

Bugs laughed. “Yes. There are many—almost all of the geds can be considered geds of story! Do you know why, Fazzi?”

But he didn’t wait for Fazzi to answer.

He continued with a glimmer in his eye. “Because story is at the heart of everything. It is the female energy that begins and finishes the stories. The mothers, and the goddesses. While the male energy must tend to the center. There is Hoen who plants the seeds of a story’s beginning, Rathram who leads the way down the winding river of life, and Vizpa who creates endings as beautiful as the setting sun. There is Kimjara who reveals the divine through stories, and Korvi-Korvu, who your Grandfather Lhohlo dances to, who shows us the rhythms of life. And of course there is Iogwan, who promises one day to undo all of the tales which did not end so happily.”

“Fazzi just came to accompany me,” said Amma, as she stepped forward and put a heavy hand on Fazzi’s shoulder.

But Fazzi hardly heard her, for his heart was leaping with joy again. “Which one do you serve, Uncle?”

Before he could answer, a dark insect scurried across the ground, and climbed up Byros’ leg. Byros shook his leg until the thing had fallen, then sent it off with a kick.

It fell between Fazzi and Bugs, its legs twitching.

Bugs knelt and picked it up.

“Please, tell your bugs to leave me be,” said Byros loudly. “I’d sooner wrestle a bear than let one of those touch me again.”

Bugs didn’t say anything. He carried the insect a little ways, and set it on a rock while the others watched. It seemed he was praying.

Then he turned to them. “In the colony, there is only one mind. It is only in death that one becomes a separate thing… I will name this one curiosity, for it was for this reason that it left the others.”

After one last look at the twitching thing on the rock, Bugs turned and motioned for them all to follow. “Come, come,” he said.

He certainly is strange, thought Fazzi.

Byros slowed and whispered as he passed by Fazzi. “We love him,” he said with a laugh. “But he’s a crazy old kook.”

Amma gave Fazzi’s hand a squeeze, and kissed him on the forehead. “We’ll be done with this soon, don’t worry, then it’s all the food you could ever eat and a good night’s rest. You’ve earned it!”

Bugs led them to a towering mound of dirt beside the pagoda, and through a doorway carved into it, reinforced with stone and timber. They descended into the darkness without a torch, but there was a faint glowing ahead of them which lit the way, an eerie blue that was just barely enough to see by.

The earthen walls on either side were alive with insects like the one Byros had kicked, shutterbugs, they were called. On many occasions, Fazzi had helped chase the little crumb thieves out of their hut in Mull. The shuterbugs shied away from the light, and Fazzi couldn’t catch much more of them than the glimmer of their jet black shells from time to time. Most were quite small, like the ones Fazzi was familiar with, but there were others scurrying in the darkest shadows that must have been the size of Fazzi’s fist. Amma walked with Fazzi, her sharp nails digging into his shoulder. Fazzi squeezed Lil Faz tighter, and stood taller.

They entered into a small room, and Fazzi was instantly overcome by a smell like burnt metal and the glowing light became so blue it was nearly white.

Even stronger though, was the dense mindsong that fluttered in Fazzi’s forehead.

It wasn’t just one, but hundreds—thousands even! It must have been the songs of all of the shutterbugs in the colony all wrapped up into one. It was loud and screeching, like every emotion at the same time.

“Do you feel it?” asked Bugs, “Like a warm towel on your forehead.”

He is a crazy old man, thought Fazzi, wishing he hadn’t followed Bugs so closely, but he looked him in the eye as he had been taught. “Yes,” he said.

Bugs looked happy to hear this. “They like you already, I can tell!” he said, waving around at the walls, thick with shutterbugs. “Here.” He placed a loaf of bread in Fazzi’s hand. “To become a part of it for even a moment is an incredible experience, Fazzi. A beautiful one. It’ll be good for you.”

In the center of the room, the queen lay on a slab of marble. She wore a necklace wrapped around her swollen abdomen, and rings around her knobbed legs. She was nearly as long as Fazzi, and stared at her visitors with no expression—only the weariness of old age written in her eyes, and something else too…

Bugs nodded to the queen. “Bring her the gift, and ask for her blessing.”

Fazzi didn’t want to. He looked to Jaceira… she held her hands clasped before her in a pose that Fazzi often saw Amma in. She was balancing in a world apart from theirs. Fazzi puffed out his chest as the boy had done, he hoped Jaceira would see him. When he tried to leave, Amma was still holding his shoulder.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she whispered. She turned to Bugs. “Uncle, don’t you think he’s young…? It might be… uncomfortable…” Her hands clasped him like a bird that might fly away.

“Well…” said Bugs. “I guess—

“I’ll do it,” Fazzi said, pulling away from Amma and walking towards the queen with Lil Faz in one hand, and the loaf of bread in the other. If Maru could enter a nest of dragons, Fazzi could face an oversized bug.

But the Bizu aren’t in the sky anymore, Fazi remembered.

The queen stirred as he neared her, and the stormy mindsong doubled in strength until it was like a river crashing over his head. There was nothing beautiful about it… it was just loud. He knelt awkwardly before the queen, and set his loaf at her feet.

It was when their eyes met that he felt it. They were tired eyes, ancient eyes, and they cut into Fazzi like a knife through water. A wave of emotions passed over him, more a scream than a song, angry and sad they shouted, excited and so, so joyful, pleased and prideful, passionate and loyal, and more than anything else there was a feeling of unity strung through his mind and tied to a thousand others.

Suddenly, he was seeing a boy knelt before the queen, and he knew that that person was him, but he did not feel anything particularly important about the body of that boy. He was just a part of the whole, a drop of water in the crashing waves of the sea. The boy was small, and as he knelt, he held his chest puffed out funny, and glanced behind him at a girl who didn’t even look his way. Behind the boy was his spirit, and it was a sorry thing to behold. It was so tiny, with a head that was far too big for him, and a body that was bloated and pale, pressed up tight against a metal chain which bound it.

That’s me, he thought, sadly, as he opened his eyes.

Fazzi looked away from the queen, biting back tears. He felt Amma’s nails on his shoulder, digging in as she pulled him tight to her breast. “It’s okay Fazzi,” she said. “I’ve got you.” The tears were coming, and Fazzi’s back hurt from holding his chest out for so long. But he didn’t let Amma pull him in.

“No,” said Fazzi, getting to his feet. There are chains around my spirit, he thought, I need to break free.

He kept his eyes on the ground as he walked away. He felt Jaceira looking at him, finally… but now he didn’t want her to see him at all—Not like this!

There was something wet on his fingers. Looking down, he saw that Lil Faz was still in his hands—and she was red with blood.

He nearly screamed, it was too much! He shook his hand until she fell away from him. His head was burning up, and he put a hand to his swollen veins as he ran past all of them and out of the room.

There was a storm in his head, and it was pushing at all the edges of his skull, growing stronger… ready to burst free!

[dailychapel]

God, sometimes life gets me down and I find it hard to see things to be thankful for. Open my eyes to see the gifts you’ve given me in my life. I’m going to start by thanking you for loving me enough to come to earth and die so we can live together forever. Amen.

Genesis 40:1-23 NLT - "1 Some time later, Pharaoh's chief cup-bearer and chief baker offended their royal master. 2 Pharaoh became angry with these two officials, 3 and he put them in the prison where Joseph was, in the palace of the captain of the guard. 4 They remained in prison for quite some time, and the captain of the guard assigned them to Joseph, who looked after them. 5 While they were in prison, Pharaoh's cup-bearer and baker each had a dream one night, and each dream had its own meaning. 6 When Joseph saw them the next morning, he noticed that they both looked upset. 7 "Why do you look so worried today?" he asked them. 8 And they replied, "We both had dreams last night, but no one can tell us what they mean." "Interpreting dreams is God's business," Joseph replied. "Go ahead and tell me your dreams." 9 So the chief cup-bearer told Joseph his dream first. "In my dream," he said, "I saw a grapevine in front of me. 10 The vine had three branches that began to bud and blossom, and soon it produced clusters of ripe grapes. 11 I was holding Pharaoh's wine cup in my hand, so I took a cluster of grapes and squeezed the juice into the cup. Then I placed the cup in Pharaoh's hand." 12 "This is what the dream means," Joseph said. "The three branches represent three days. 13 Within three days Pharaoh will lift you up and restore you to your position as his chief cup-bearer. 14 And please remember me and do me a favor when things go well for you. Mention me to Pharaoh, so he might let me out of this place. 15 For I was kidnapped from my homeland, the land of the Hebrews, and now I'm here in prison, but I did nothing to deserve it." 16 When the chief baker saw that Joseph had given the first dream such a positive interpretation, he said to Joseph, "I had a dream, too. In my dream there were three baskets of white pastries stacked on my head. 17 The top basket contained all kinds of pastries for Pharaoh, but the birds came and ate them from the basket on my head." 18 "This is what the dream means," Joseph told him. "The three baskets also represent three days. 19 Three days from now Pharaoh will lift you up and impale your body on a pole. Then birds will come and peck away at your flesh." 20 Pharaoh's birthday came three days later, and he prepared a banquet for all his officials and staff. He summoned his chief cup-bearer and chief baker to join the other officials. 21 He then restored the chief cup-bearer to his former position, so he could again hand Pharaoh his cup. 22 But Pharaoh impaled the chief baker, just as Joseph had predicted when he interpreted his dream. 23 Pharaoh's chief cup-bearer, however, forgot all about Joseph, never giving him another thought."

Psalm 115:1-18 NLT - "1 Not to us, O LORD, not to us, but to your name goes all the glory for your unfailing love and faithfulness. 2 Why let the nations say, "Where is their God?" 3 Our God is in the heavens, and he does as he wishes. 4 Their idols are merely things of silver and gold, shaped by human hands. 5 They have mouths but cannot speak, and eyes but cannot see. 6 They have ears but cannot hear, and noses but cannot smell. 7 They have hands but cannot feel, and feet but cannot walk, and throats but cannot make a sound. 8 And those who make idols are just like them, as are all who trust in them. 9 O Israel, trust the LORD! He is your helper and your shield. 10 O priests, descendants of Aaron, trust the LORD! He is your helper and your shield. 11 All you who fear the LORD, trust the LORD! He is your helper and your shield. 12 The LORD remembers us and will bless us. He will bless the people of Israel and bless the priests, the descendants of Aaron. 13 He will bless those who fear the LORD, both great and lowly. 14 May the LORD richly bless both you and your children. 15 May you be blessed by the LORD, who made heaven and earth. 16 The heavens belong to the LORD, but he has given the earth to all humanity. 17 The dead cannot sing praises to the LORD, for they have gone into the silence of the grave. 18 But we can praise the LORD both now and forever! Praise the LORD!"

Hebrews 11:24-40 NLT - "24 It was by faith that Moses, when he grew up, refused to be called the son of Pharaoh's daughter. 25 He chose to share the oppression of God's people instead of enjoying the fleeting pleasures of sin. 26 He thought it was better to suffer for the sake of Christ than to own the treasures of Egypt, for he was looking ahead to his great reward. 27 It was by faith that Moses left the land of Egypt, not fearing the king's anger. He kept right on going because he kept his eyes on the one who is invisible. 28 It was by faith that Moses commanded the people of Israel to keep the Passover and to sprinkle blood on the doorposts so that the angel of death would not kill their firstborn sons. 29 It was by faith that the people of Israel went right through the Red Sea as though they were on dry ground. But when the Egyptians tried to follow, they were all drowned. 30 It was by faith that the people of Israel marched around Jericho for seven days, and the walls came crashing down. 31 It was by faith that Rahab the prostitute was not destroyed with the people in her city who refused to obey God. For she had given a friendly welcome to the spies. 32 How much more do I need to say? It would take too long to recount the stories of the faith of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel, and all the prophets. 33 By faith these people overthrew kingdoms, ruled with justice, and received what God had promised them. They shut the mouths of lions, 34 quenched the flames of fire, and escaped death by the edge of the sword. Their weakness was turned to strength. They became strong in battle and put whole armies to flight. 35 Women received their loved ones back again from death. But others were tortured, refusing to turn from God in order to be set free. They placed their hope in a better life after the resurrection. 36 Some were jeered at, and their backs were cut open with whips. Others were chained in prisons. 37 Some died by stoning, some were sawed in half, and others were killed with the sword. Some went about wearing skins of sheep and goats, destitute and oppressed and mistreated. 38 They were too good for this world, wandering over deserts and mountains, hiding in caves and holes in the ground. 39 All these people earned a good reputation because of their faith, yet none of them received all that God had promised. 40 For God had something better in mind for us, so that they would not reach perfection without us."

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

Lord Jesus Christ, send us out with confidence in your word, to tell the world of your saving acts, and bring glory to your name. Amen.

[recentnews18-blog]

New Post has been published on https://shovelnews.com/the-funny-thing-about-rachel-brosnahan/

The Funny Thing About Rachel Brosnahan

There’s a moment in the second season of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel when the title character, a 1950s housewife turned up-and-coming stand-up comic, has to work a new type of room. Until now, she’s peddled her jokes mostly to pals at parties and small crowds at the cramped Gaslight Cafe—manageable groups, filled with friendly and slightly drunk faces. This time, though, she’s up against her biggest audience yet—an awareness that hit Rachel Brosnahan, who embodies Miriam “Midge” Maisel with an almost eerie precision, like a particularly sharp punch line. “As I got up onstage to perform that scene,” she says, “I realized that it was also bigger than anything that I was used to. And then I had the realization that it’s only going to get bigger and bigger—and more and more horrifying.”

Brosnahan is laughing when she tells this story, but she’s at least slightly serious about how scary it is for her to do comedy—even now. That’s because, as she’ll tell you herself, Brosnahan is emphatically not a comedian. She is, however, an actress—old-school, Method-trained, perhaps just the teensiest bit Type A. As a kid, she spent hours crafting a PowerPoint presentation in hopes of persuading her parents to let her get a dog. And as a 28-year-old, she channels that same energy into research. While preparing to play the title character in Amy Sherman-Palladino’s criminally charming comedy, Brosnahan didn’t just immerse herself in the work of Joan Rivers and Phyllis Diller and Jean Carroll and Carol Burnett. She also made a habit of attending open mikes, so-called “bringer” shows, where wannabe comics must deliver a certain number of spectators if they want to secure a spot onstage.

Brosnahan didn’t get that dog until right before she went to college, but the care she took for Mrs. Maisel paid off immediately. The series, which Amazon has already renewed through its third season, is delightful, a candy-colored screwball throwback that easily stands out among television’s dour biggest hits (Hulu’s The Handmaid’s Tale, HBO’s Westworld, FX’s dearly departed The Americans). Season One debuted last November 29; less than two weeks later, the series earned two Golden Globe nominations, for best comedy and for Brosnahan’s performance. It won both. At the Emmys, it will compete with 14 nominations, including outstanding comedy series and Brosnahan for outstanding lead actress in a comedy series.

Photograph by Erik Madigan Heck. For additional information, visit vf.com/credits.

All that, and Brosnahan still hasn’t performed stand-up outside the confines of a soundstage. “I think that would prevent me from ever being able to do this job,” she says. “I’d be so traumatized.” Instead, when she goes to comedy shows, she dedicates herself to being the world’s most supportive spectator. “Having even had a taste of what it’s like,” says Brosnahan, “I am the one laughing the loudest at everybody’s jokes in the back, because I want them to feel seen and heard and encouraged.”

That’s true even when the comedians are practiced and the environs are significantly slicker. Case in point: this breezy June night, when she’s taking a break from Mrs. Maisel’s corsets and tongue-tripping monologues to catch a show at Caveat, a surprisingly roomy basement venue on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Once, Midge Maisel may have visited this neighborhood to hunt for Judaica and discounted leather goods; now it’s a yuppie paradise where Russ & Daughters will add a schmear of goat’s-milk cream cheese to your everything bagel for just $4. In her jeans, leather jacket, and subtly chic gold-framed glasses—a far cry from Midge’s nipped waists and full, rustling skirts—Brosnahan fits right in.

“I’m late to every party. But when I arrive, I arrive.”

When comedians Dave Mizzoni and Matt Rogers take the stage, Brosnahan is the first person in the crowd to jump to her feet. (She’s not just being nice; the three of them went to N.Y.U. together, and other friends are in the audience tonight as well.) She laughs gamely and generously as the evening unfolds, even on the occasions when Mizzoni’s and Rogers’s very targeted references—the name of this program is “The Gayme Show,” and its tagline is “Exactly what you think”—whiz right past her.

Spending 16 hours a day surrounded by Eisenhower-era culture doesn’t leave a person much time to study the complete works of Frankie Grande (Ariana’s brother) or prolific YouTuber and Taylor Swift bestie Todrick Hall—or even to keep up with old co-workers. At one point, an extended riff on the new Ryan Murphy drama, Pose, ends with a pointed crack about series regular Kate Mara. Until she hears the joke, Brosnahan has no idea that Mara—who, like her, was a regular on House of Cards—is appearing on Pose or that Pose has already premiered.

“I don’t have a TV,” she says with a sigh. “I am living in 1957.”

If she woke up one morning and decided to become an expert on the life and times of pop-star-adjacent Instagram stars, though, there’s no question Brosnahan would excel. She may not be as brash as Midge Maisel, who memorably finishes her first impromptu stand-up performance by exposing herself to a crowd of roaring Beatniks, but she’s nearly as self-assured, and every bit as capable. She’s subverted expectations on bigger stages than this one, after all.

“I’m late to every party,” Brosnahan says by way of apology to Mara. “But when I arrive, I arrive.”

Before she read the Mrs. Maisel script, Brosnahan was planning to turn away from TV and toward theater and film. After, there was no question that Midge had to be hers.

Photograph by Erik Madigan Heck.

Objectively speaking, Brosnahan is being modest. She certainly didn’t arrive late to Hollywood: even before graduating from N.Y.U., in 2012, she was steadily booking bit parts on Gossip Girl, The Good Wife, and In Treatment. The roles were small but professional all the same, as essential to a budding acting career as a one a.m. open-mike slot is to a would-be Sarah Silverman.

“I’ve played Eating Disorder Girl, Girl, Call Girl—many types of girl,” she says, laughing. “That’s my type, all types of girl.” It’s a few hours before “The Gayme Show,” and Brosnahan is picking at a giant slice of carrot cake. Crowds of pastrami-seeking tourists have foiled our original plan to visit Katz’s Delicatessen; instead, we’ve settled into a squishy booth at the self-consciously retro Remedy Diner, a dead ringer for the vintage greasy spoons where Midge Maisel and her curmudgeonly manager, Susie (Alex Borstein), talk set lists over coffee and French fries.

Simple as these starter characters were, Brosnahan was savvy enough to see their value. Being last on the call sheet allowed her to listen, and observe, and take risks in a low-stakes environment before returning to the safe space of N.Y.U.’s Lee Strasberg Theatre & Film Institute—where she could “ask questions, and study, and try to get better. And then try it again.”

As her undergraduate career wound to a close, Brosnahan’s persistence led her to the ultimate “girl” role: a throwaway part in the first two episodes of a new political drama called House of Cards, that of a nameless prostitute. Her handful of lines included uninspiring utterances like “Excuse me” and “I mean, I’m kinky, but I don’t know if I’m the girl you’re looking for.”

Former show-runner Beau Willimon saw potential in Brosnahan’s raw, arresting performance and her immediate chemistry with actor Michael Kelly, who plays pathologically loyal future White House chief of staff Doug Stamper. Soon, he expanded Call Girl into a proper part, one that had an arc and a backstory and a name. One that would, a few years later, earn Brosnahan an Emmy nomination for outstanding guest actress in a drama. Kelly, who received his first Emmy nomination the same year, credits her work with elevating his own.

“I was sitting at the lunch table when Beau said, ‘I think we got to give you a name,’” Kelly recalls.

The one Willimon settled on, funny enough, was “Rachel,” which inspired some mild protest from Brosnahan: “I was like, What?! Why?! That’s so fucked up!”

“Rachel was not afraid to not fall apart. She was not afraid to be angry and to stay tough.”

It was, as was Rachel the character’s sorry existence, which began when she was caught beside a drunk-driving congressman and ended, two seasons later, in a shallow grave somewhere in the New Mexico desert. (No wonder Amy Sherman-Palladino likes to classify Brosnahan’s pre–Mrs. Maisel parts as “the girl that someone’s tied up and thrown in the back of a van.”)

But House of Cards also offered another education for Brosnahan—taught her the ins and outs of having a significant part on a prestige series at the dawn of the peak-TV era—and gave her an outlet to display the dark side of her sense of humor, if only among her peers when the cameras weren’t rolling. She and Kelly, her most frequent scene partner, grew close enough that even filming her final moments ended up being a blast; scroll back far enough on her Instagram, and you’ll find a sweet snapshot of the two of them contentedly spooning in the dusty hole that will eventually house Call Girl Rachel’s lifeless body.

Then there’s the matter of Fake Rachel’s dead-eyed head, a silicone model designed solely to be buried. “On my phone somewhere, there are some pictures of Michael and Beau and I making out with Rachel’s head,” Brosnahan says, sounding simultaneously sheepish and proud. “It’s really—it’s dark.”

Though she couldn’t have known it at the time, this was also decent practice for Mrs. Maisel—whose surface whimsy conceals more than a hint of bleakness. The series begins at the end of an era for Midge Maisel—née Weissman—who has spent the entirety of her young life meticulously ticking every box on a very strict, self-imposed rubric for feminine success. She’s a Bryn Mawr graduate with an alabaster complexion and a 25-inch waist; she’s given her husband, the feckless but amiable Joel (Michael Zegen), two children, a boy and a girl. She’s secured the community’s most prominent rabbi as a guest for her upcoming Yom Kippur break-fast. If there were any justice, Midge would spend the rest of her days tending to her picture-perfect family, indulgently accompanying Joel on his jaunts to Greenwich Village comedy clubs until the two of them got old and gray and ditched Manhattan for Longboat Key.

And then Joel delivers his sucker punch. “I just don’t want this life, this whole Upper West Side, classic six, best seats in temple,” he tells Midge, after an embarrassing attempt at delivering his own jokes at the Gaslight. Oh, and he’s also been sleeping with his secretary, a skinny shiksa named Penny Pann. Sherman-Palladino and her husband and collaborator, Dan Palladino, asked every actress they considered for Midge to read three scenes in their audition, including the big breakup.

“Most of the actresses, great actresses, came in and broke down—fell apart, as sometimes you will when somebody walks out on your life,” Sherman-Palladino says. “And Rachel was not afraid to not fall apart. She was not afraid to be angry and to stay tough. Because the thing about that scene is it was not there to show her vulnerability. That scene was there to show that pain brought out the comic’s voice.”

Brosnahan in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.

Photograph by Nicole Rivelli/©Amazon/Courtesy of Everett Collection.

Photograph by Sarah Shatz/©Amazon/Courtesy of Everett Collection.

Sure enough, shortly after Joel up and leaves—packing his things in Midge’s suitcase, a final insult to injury—Midge ends up back at the Gaslight, sloshed on kosher wine, and wanders onto the stage. Before she knows it, she’s telling a roomful of strangers every sordid detail of her wrecked marriage, but sculpting the story so it sounds amusing rather than pathetic. She heckles one dim-witted audience member; she interrupts her stream of consciousness to talk real estate with another. In the midst of explaining why she made a perfect wife, she announces that there’s no truth to “all that shit they say about Jewish girls in the bedroom᠁ There are French whores standing around the Marais district saying, ‘Did you hear what Midge did to Joel’s balls the other night?’ ” She doesn’t stop until the police show up to book her for public indecency and performing without a cabaret license, and even they can’t keep her from landing one last zinger as she gestures toward her exposed breasts: “You think Bob Newhart’s got a set of these at home? Rickles, maybe!”

The performance is spontaneous and exhilarating and very, very funny, everything that Joel isn’t—and from the moment she grabs the mike, it’s clear that both Midge and the actress playing her are going to be big, bright shining stars.

Sherman-Palladino, still best known as the creator of the fast-talking, culturally omnivorous Gilmore Girls, has no shortage of colorful descriptors for her newest muse. In her eyes, Brosnahan is simply not human: “She’s a space alien, or she’s some sort of magical creature, or—I believe I’ve described her before as a Tolkien character. She’s just, she’s just kind of not of this earth.” Then again, Brosnahan’s appeal as a performer may be even more elemental. “She’s a very smart girl, and she understands things—which is 90 percent of the job.”

Born in Milwaukee and raised in the Chicago suburb of Highland Park, Brosnahan was a shy and serious kid who spent much of her time immersed in fantasy—Harry Potter, Roald Dahl, the kiddie adventure novels of Enid Blyton. During the summers, which she spent with her mother’s family in England, she’d work her way through an entire carry-on bag filled with books before replacing them all with new volumes for the trip home.

Her family, she says, tends more toward the athletic than the arty. (They obviously have a creative side as well; one of her father’s sisters was the designer Kate Spade, who died in June.) Brosnahan herself is a snowboarder as well as a former high-school wrestler—a fact that greatly amused Sherman-Palladino—but also fell for acting at an early age: “Something about the transformational process just felt magical, like a lot of those books.”

It’s easy to picture Brosnahan as a thoughtful little bookworm, a Hermione Granger type with a slightly morbid edge. Even now, she speaks with the careful deliberation of someone who values and understands the weight of words; her diction is flawless, with crisply pronounced consonants and no trace of a midwestern twang. “You work with her on set, and then off set you’ll kind of chat with her—and then you’re occasionally reminded that she’s 28 years old,” says Dan Palladino. Sherman-Palladino had a rude awakening along those lines when she told Brosnahan that she resembled a more smiley Tracy Flick: “She’s like, ‘Who’s that?’ I’m like, ‘Election?’ She goes, ‘What?’ And I’m 100. I’ve officially—I just turned 100.”

“I’ve played Eating Disorder Girl, Girl, Call Girl—many types of girl,” Brosnahan says of her early roles.

Photograph by Erik Madigan Heck.

So perhaps it comes as no surprise that Brosnahan wasn’t the most obvious choice to play Midge, a gregarious macher who speaks as quickly as, well, a woman dreamed up by Amy Sherman-Palladino. David Oyelowo, who played Othello to Brosnahan’s Desdemona in New York Theatre Workshop’s 2016 production, said in an e-mail that his co-star was worried about Mrs. Maisel initially because she didn’t consider herself to be funny. (“She is of course saying this while we’re taking silly selfies backstage just before I had to go onstage and murder her,” he added.) Brosnahan isn’t even Jewish—though Highland Park itself was Jewish enough, she says, that she’s been to “hundreds of Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs. I could maybe Bat Mitzvah you.”

Going into her Mrs. Maisel audition, though, Brosnahan had two things working in her favor. The first was that she’d recently finished playing a Jewish wife and mother with a well-to-do background and an enviable wardrobe on the little-watched but very good WGN America drama Manhattan, set within the desert compound where American scientists raced to design and build the first atomic bomb. Sam Shaw, that show’s creator, remembers that Brosnahan originally wanted to play the role of physicist Helen Prins. She worried that Abby Isaacs, the part she ended up getting, “would become Wife No. 3, like signing on for seven years of making crudités or something,” he says. But while Abby was not the show’s lead, she wasn’t a background character, either. The part gave Brosnahan an opportunity to imbue a woman of a bygone era with real depth, and to learn how to navigate restrictive, period-appropriate shapewear. (“I have learned so much about undergarments,” she says, deadpan. “And I truly don’t understand how anybody survived the 50s.”)

The second thing working in Brosnahan’s favor was that she wanted the part of Midge Maisel. Like, really wanted it, maybe more than anything since her parents got her that dog. Before she read the Mrs. Maisel script, Brosnahan was planning to turn away from TV and toward theater and film. After, there was no question that Midge had to be hers. She’s the kind of character, Brosnahan says, that “I often don’t see represented on television—somebody who is unapologetically confident, who has an innate sense of self-empowerment, who isn’t afraid to pat herself on the back for accomplishing goals. And who’s unapologetically ambitious.” While Midge is charming and lovable, she’s also superficial and flighty and a breathtakingly terrible mother who measures her baby’s forehead when she’s worried it’s getting too big; a flawed, recognizably human person, rather than a plucky proto-feminist who conforms precisely to 21st-century ideals.

That’s catnip for a determined young actress—and for a viewing audience beaten down by a news cycle of ever mounting tragedy and violence, not to mention a TV landscape dominated by dreariness. Even the comedies sharing Emmy space with Mrs. Maisel (Atlanta, Barry) are as likely to punch viewers in the gut as they are to make them laugh. “It’s a pretty shit time to be alive, and this show’s like a little ant moving a rubber-tree plant,” says Alex Borstein, who plays Susie, the wannabe agent who persuades Midge to pursue showbiz in a serious way. “You want to see these two people succeed. It’s a breath of fresh air.”

That was especially true in November, when the series debuted its full first season just as the #MeToo movement was reaching its zenith. It was a moment when every Twitter refresh seemed to expose a new, horrifying story of sexual misconduct. And then came Mrs. Maisel, a burst of cleansing light—colorful, fast-paced, sunny as an old-fashioned musical, but without anyone breaking into song. Ironically, it’s one of the only female-oriented shows that was green-lighted by former Amazon Studios head Roy Price before he resigned last October, after being accused of sexual harassment himself. (Price has not commented on the allegations.) Though there’s some darkness at its core, Mrs. Maisel is, above all, the jubilant story of a talented woman who works hard, triumphing over the odds and her mediocre loser of a husband. It is, as Brosnahan points out, partly a fantasy. But what a fantasy.

Though there’s some darkness at its core, Mrs. Maisel is, above all, the jubilant story of a talented woman who works hard, triumphing over the odds.

Photograph by Erik Madigan Heck.

It’s impossible to know to what extent Mrs. Maisel’s exultant reception has been affected by fortuitous timing. Brosnahan grows more thoughtful than usual when asked whether she believes it was, noting that the show’s story would be inspiring no matter the surrounding context. But possibly, she continues, Mrs. Maisel had an even greater impact because it debuted at a time when “we’re talking about women finding voices they didn’t know they had,” and—her words coming faster now, and more emphatically—“young people finding voices they didn’t know they had. This is a theme of the moment.”

Brosnahan has given a lot of thought to The Moment and, more specifically, to its momentum—how her industry, and all industries, can parlay this surge of righteous anger into lasting change. Though she’s never been a particularly active social-media user, she’s backed away from Twitter, she says, “because it just feels like we’re all shouting into a vacuum, and I’m trying to focus more on taking those active statements out of Twitter and into the real world.”

As her star rises, Brosnahan has also found herself being more careful about the things she posts online—for practical reasons, as well as the understandable desire to keep her private life private. “As somebody who’s always felt like a pretty open book, I find myself being very protective of whatever the elusive real me is,” she says. Famous performers sometimes become celebrities first and actors second, a fate that would have robbed Brosnahan of her prized ability to disappear fully into a role. (That said, she does have a very cute Instagram largely devoted to her dogs: a Shiba Inu named Winston and a pit bull named Nikki.)

Brosnahan doesn’t just hope to keep her on-screen options open. She’d love to do another play in the near-ish future, to produce, to direct. She wants to see and make more stories that focus on the nuances of female friendship, like one of her current favorite shows, Issa Rae’s Insecure. She’s already developing a pilot with a couple of friends, one that focuses on young people in politics. Brosnahan doesn’t plan to star in the show, but perhaps it’ll be a stepping-stone to the next phase in her career—just as those “girl” parts led to House of Cards led to Manhattan led to Mrs. Maisel.

As of now, Brosnahan’s success hasn’t had a hugely measurable impact on her day-to-day life. She can walk her dogs in broad daylight without being swarmed; she can laugh at a comedian’s joke about Oprah without anyone around her recognizing that she actually knows Oprah. (Or at least said hello to Oprah from the stage after winning a Golden Globe.) The biggest shift, she says, is that people finally know how to pronounce “Brosnahan.” But if she keeps climbing the way Mrs. Maisel’s heroine certainly will, all this could change as well.

Remember, she admires Midge for being unapologetically ambitious. And when asked if she’d describe herself the same way, Brosnahan doesn’t hesitate: “Absolutely. Yeah. Yeah!” Then, after a brief, perfectly timed beat, the TV comedian turns to the magazine reporter and nails another punch line: “How about you?”

Clothing by Valentino; boots by Andreas Kronthaler for Vivienne Westwood. Throughout: hair products by Bumble and Bumble; makeup by Chanel; nail enamel by Zoya.

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Full ScreenPhotos: Marvelous Mrs. Maisel Creator Amy Sherman-Palladino and Her Many Hats

January 7, 2018

Hats off to the Sherman-Palladinos, husband-and-wife writing team.

Photo: By Kevork Djansezian/NBC/Getty Images.

January 10, 2013

A top hat in her Bunheads days.

Photo: By Frederick M. Brown/Getty Images.

March 19, 2012

With Sutton Foster on the red carpet for Bunheads (hence the angelic blue bow, we assume).

Photo: By Heidi Gutman/Getty Images.

November 13, 2017

The higher the top hat, the closer to god.

Photo: By Steve Zak Photography/Getty Images.

November 09, 2017

And still squarely in Dickens’s world.

Photo: By John Stillwell/PA Images/Getty Images.

April 21, 2003

A rare sun hat in her Gilmore Girls days.

Photo: By Mathew Imaging/Getty Images.

May 24, 2017

And an even more rare tan hat on the set of Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.

Photo: By Bobby Bank/Getty Images.

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January 7, 2018

Hats off to the Sherman-Palladinos, husband-and-wife writing team.

By Kevork Djansezian/NBC/Getty Images.

January 10, 2013

A top hat in her Bunheads days.

By Frederick M. Brown/Getty Images.

March 19, 2012

With Sutton Foster on the red carpet for Bunheads (hence the angelic blue bow, we assume).

By Heidi Gutman/Getty Images.

November 13, 2017

The higher the top hat, the closer to god.

By Steve Zak Photography/Getty Images.

November 18, 2016

On the Netflix red carpet for Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life. Recall the fantastical dance number in the last episode of that season, where top hats had an important role.

By Alberto E. Rodriguez/Getty Images.

October 29, 2016

Moving into Dickens territory here.

By Emma McIntyre/Getty Images.

November 09, 2017

And still squarely in Dickens’s world.

By John Stillwell/PA Images/Getty Images.

April 21, 2003

A rare sun hat in her Gilmore Girls days.

By Mathew Imaging/Getty Images.

May 24, 2017

And an even more rare tan hat on the set of Marvelous Mrs. Maisel.

By Bobby Bank/Getty Images.

Source: https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2018/08/rachel-brosnahan-cover-story

[inb4vaughn]

Silvies Valley Ranch: Oregon Original

The great state of Oregon jumped on the big-time international golf travel map nearly 20 years ago (hello, Bandon Dunes), and for decades before that had a foothold on the regional travel scene (hello, Bend), but when the Retreat and Links at Silvies Valley Ranch opened this summer, the map grew in a big, beautiful and brash way.

Sprouting on several hundred acres of dramatic high desert terrain at the northern end of a 140,000-acre working cattle ranch, a nearly six-hour drive from Portland and three hours from Boise, Idaho, Silvies isn’t easy to get to. That’s part of its against-the-grain essence and rough-edged charm. Golfers will rack up mega-miles to discover the next great course, and Eugene-born architect Dan Hixson’s reversible 36 holes definitely qualify as great, or on their way to great once they’ve had a bit more time to mature.

Hixson and ranch owner Scott Campbell — a retired veterinarian from nearby Burns, Oregon, who bought the property with his wife, Sandy, in 2007 — walked the site several times before starting construction in 2010. A no-nonsense, detail-oriented guy who at one point considered skipping a course altogether or just doing nine holes, Campbell made Hixson an out-of-the-norm offer: Instead of paying him a design fee, he’d put him on payroll and give him 10 percent of the course’s revenue. Now Hixson is pretty much part of the family, and with the resort’s opening, the rest of the traveling golfer community is invited to the table, too.

REVERSIBLE GOLF REVOLUTION

No. 14 on the Hankins Course is one of Silvies’ few stand-alone holes.

As with the Old Course at St. Andrews or The Loop, Tom Doak’s new design at Forest Dunes in Michigan, Hixson fashioned a full 36 holes on one 600-acre hunk of land (about 120 acres are turf), with each 18, the Hankins and Craddock, named after 19th century Silvies Valley homesteaders. The Hankins moves counterclockwise over the rolling mix of sage prairie, grassy meadows and pine-fir forest; the Craddock goes clockwise. Alternating daily for play, they share 27 greens and 16 fairways, with several other putting surfaces and a couple fairways unique to each course to make the best use of the site. Some would contend that makes it something other than truly “reversible,” but Hixson did the right thing, and the results are surprising, engrossing, spectacular and flat-out fun.

“Scott jokes that Dan built more than 36 holes, but along the way picked his favorites,” says Lee Harlow, who came on board as Director of Golf Operations just before the resort opened for preview stay-and-play business in July 2017. “Dan had a blank canvas; with all that land he was able to choose what he thought were the best golf holes. It takes a bit to get used to, but once you’ve played them a couple times you get a feel for them. Most designers need to worry about building around lots and real estate, but Dan had the run of the place.”

ONE SITE, TWO EXPERIENCES

No. 13 on the Craddock Course plays the other direction as No. 6 on the Hankins. Photo by Ron Bellamy.

Somehow Hixson — who also designed Bandon Crossings a few miles south of the famed golf resort, and Wine Valley in Walla Walla, Washington — devised two tracks that stand alone, with their own character. It’s a thrill to come upon a hole, stand on one of the many elevated tees (from which the views are vast, encompassing not only the task at hand, but eons of geologic movement and restless human history), and realize you’ve covered that same ground from a different direction, without a hint of sameness. Greens and bunkers are shaped to attract or repel or swallow a shot on their own terms, from alternate angles. Fairways are wide, as they need to be to accommodate shared holes — but traps, creeks, wetlands, desert outcroppings and stands of trees sneak into sight and shot lines at just the right places. This is design sleight-of-hand of the most seductive kind and there needs to be more of it, for golf’s sake and the planet’s too (less turf means less water use).

HOLE TO HOLE HEAVEN

Silvies Valley Ranch’s pro shop and Hideout grill overlook Craddock No. 18.

If fairways are football field broad, greens are St. Andrews huge. As on the Scottish coast, winds tend to kick up in these parts, so average size is well over 10,000 square feet — though you need to cut them in half when planning your approach, except on the few stand-alone holes: Holes 7 and 13-15 on the Hankins (on balance the easier of the two courses, according to most players) and Holes 10-12 on the Craddock (No. 18 Craddock also has its own green). Hixson went the hug-the-topography route when building his putting surfaces, asking the golfer to negotiate steep banks and cliffhanging reads from just a few feet from the cup. Nothing is a gimme, and if you’re on the wrong side of a shared surface you could be looking at a 100-footer or more. That’s part of the fun and a more than acceptable source of frustration. On what amounts to high-altitude links golf, creativity is key and playing the ball on the ground is a definite option, especially from 50 yards and in. Enjoy the challenge wrapped in serenity — no nearby structures or power lines, with the whispering trees and nibbling deer and stunning natural beauty your only distractions. Pick the right approach and pray for a two-putt average.

“I think they’re two wonderful courses,” Harlow says. “Hankins starts low and works its way up; Craddock goes up right away, then comes down.”

But wait, there’s more: Below the simple pro shop/clubhouse/grill complex known as The Hideout is the Chief Egan, a nine-hole par-3 layout built around a pond and wetlands that makes for the perfect sunset emergency round — beer in  one hand, wedge and putter in the other. And next year a seven-hole target course called McVeigh’s Gauntlet will debut, giving golfers another bet-settling option. “As I understand it, it’ll also have a par-2 ‘bonus hole,’” Harlow says.

JUST THE BEGINNING

The bar inside the Lodge at Silvies Valley Ranch

Silvies Ranch is zoned for up to 7,500 rooms but Campbell doesn’t expect it to get anywhere near that big. But it will indeed grow soon. The resort opened with 34 rooms and 44 beds spread over several cabins and a Ranch House, all appointed in “rustic luxury” — the two-bedroom lake cabins have separate king bedrooms with their own bathrooms with double-head rain showers, a large common area with kitchen, and small back porch with hot tub. There are RV hook-ups and the ranch also offers off-site lodging through local motels. The central Lodge is a former barn/bunkhouse that Campbell remodeled into a lovely single-story log cabin with full bar and restaurant with a pool room thrown in for good measure. On the dinner menu, which is served family style, is Silvies Ranch-sourced beef, pork and cheval, otherwise known as goat, which Campbell says is the next big thing in American cuisine as the nation’s population welcomes more non beef-eaters from Africa and Asia. It also happens to be delicious. Golfers can get breakfast and lunch at the Hideout as well.

When the resort reopens next spring (it’s currently closed for winter), several more cabins will be online; full-service spa with half-sized Olympic pool will pamper guests. And Campbell will fully staff for what he considers the property’s biggest draw — the ranch experience itself, including cattle drives, Razor tours into the backcountry, target shooting (he’s already build ranges for pistols and rifles), eco tours, hunting and fishing. “We want this to be a place for corporate retreats,” he says.

In the meantime, adventurous golfers should plan to nail down a trip to this corner of the Oregon Outback. You’ll have to wait until 2018 to taste what Campbell, Hixson and their team have cooked up, but you’ll savor it from the first swing.

“Dr. Campbell, Sandy and Dan have a big vision, and the resources and creativity to execute it,” Harlow says. “They are building something that’s special.”

$260 for daily play, $225 resort guests | http://ift.tt/2z1dB03

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